^3S^~nt^3KEZ~'^!& 


!  A  R  Y     OF 
-MICK    A.TAYLCB 

BOOK    No... 


] 


'49 


THE  GOLD-SEEKER  OF  THE  SIERRAS 


JOAQUIN  MILLER 

AUTHOR  OF  "MEMOKIE  AND  KIME,"   "SoNaa  OF  THE  SIEKRAS,"  ETC. 


FUNK    &    WAGNALLS 

NEW  YOKK :  1884.  LONDON : 

10  AND  12  DEY  STREET.  44  FLEET  STUEET. 

Alt  Rights  Reserved. 


Entered,  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1884,  by 

FUNK  &  WAGNALLS, 
In  the  Office  of  the  Librarian  of  Congress  at  Washington,  D.  C. 


DEDICATED 

TO 

MY    FELLOW   ARGONAUTS   OF 


'49 


220061, 


PREFACE. 


AT  the  great  Centennial  dinner  of  the  Association  of 
Forty-niners  on  the  Fair  Grounds  in  Philadelphia,  I 
read  a  portion  of  my  drama,  The  Danites,  and  won  the 
thanks  of  the  Association  for  the  portrayal  of  earnest 
manhood  "  in  the  brave  old  days  of  '49."  Bat  General 
Sutter,  the  discoverer  of  gold,  who  presided  on  this  oc 
casion,  insisted  that  the  old  man  "  '49,"  whom  he  knew 
and  loved,  was  worthy  not  only  of  the  leading  place  in  a 
drama,  but  a  whole  volume  to  himself.  I  then  and 
there  promised  to  do  the  desired  work.  General  Sutter 
furnished  me  subsequently  with  many  additional  notes 
and  facts  concerning  his  singular  valor,  his  dreary  years 
in  the  tunnel — the  first  in  California — and  his  final  good 
fortune. 

1  wrote  the  story  and  the  drama  of  ' '  '49  ' '  as  soon  as 
possible  after  my  promise  to  do  so.  The  drama  is  placed 
in  the  archives  of  the  nation  at  Washington  ;  so  that 
those  who  come  after  us  may  see  the  Argonauts  as  they 
really  were,  not  as  represented  in  the  dime  novels  and 
third-class  theatres.  The  story  of  "  '49  "  was  published 
in  Bret  Ilarte's  Overland  Monthly.  But  its  publication 
brought  out  additional  facts — aye,  romances  in  part  maybe 


VI  PREFACE. 

— from  many  old  miners  of  the  Sierras  ;  so  that  the  story 
is  now  thrice  its  original  length.  And  yet  it  is  far  too 
short — so  short  that  it  is  necessarily  crude  and  cramped 
and  unpolished.  But  bear  in  mind  the  characters 
themselves  were  rugged,  strong,  and  hard  to  master. 
They  partook  something  of  the  savage  splendor  of  ISTature 
about  them,  and  remained  to  the  end  like  their  majestic 
mountains — abrupt,  broken,  and  untamed.  Yet  if  the 
gold  is  in  the  mountains  the  true  miner  will  find  itj 
without  road  or  guide.  The  readers  whose  love  I 
cherish,  and  shall  retain  to  the  end  of  my  toil,  will  follow 
me  through  and  find  the  gold,  careless  of  all  the  rugged 
ways  ;  for  they  know  well  that  Parnassus's  self  is  savage- 
fronted. 

JOAQUIN  MILLER. 


CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER  I. 

PAGE 

"  WESTWARD,  Ho  !".... 9 


CHAPTER  II. 
OVER  THE  PLAINS 14 

CHAPTER  III. 
Two  YEARS 19 

CHAPTER  IV. 
IN  SIERRA 25 

CHAPTER  V. 
A  FRAGMENT 38 

CHAPTER  VI. 
"  JUST  ONE  LITTLE  SONG,  LOVE  " 49 

CHAPTER  VII. 
"  I'M  A  TOTAL  WRECK  " 58 

CHAPTER  VIII. 
IN  THE  DARK 70 


VI 11  CONTENTS. 

CHAPTER  IX. 

PAGE 

GOING  AWAY 75 

CHAPTER  X. 
So  WEARY! 8G 

CHAPTER  XI. 
VIGILANTES 104 

CHAPTER  XII. 
GNOME-LAND 114 

CHAPTER  XIII. 
A  CLOUD  OF  DUST 119 

CHAPTER  XIV. 
OUT  OP  THE  DARKNESS 126 

CHAPTER  XV. 
PURE  GOLD , 133 

CHAPTER  XVI. 
TIIE  HEIRESS..  .  140 


'49, 


THE   GOLD-SEEKER   OF    THE    SIERRAS. 


CHAPTER  I. 

"WESTWARD,  no!" 

The  heart  of  •woman  is  like  the  heart  of  my  Sierras — some  find 
gold  there,  and  some  do  not.  Much  depends  on  the  prospector. 

THE  years  1849-50-52  found  that  vast  region  known 
as  the  Upper  Mississippi  Valley  one  great  camp.  The 
settlers  had  poured  in  from  the  four  parts  of  the  world 
in  a  war  of  conquest.  Hard  and  bitter  was  the  unequal 
fight  with  the  savage  elements  of  the  new  lands.  When 
the  cyclones  swept  over  and  buried  the  little  villages  in 
that  early  day,  no  telegraph  heralded  the  settlers'  suffer 
ings  over  the  world,  and  brought  back  substantial  sym 
pathy.  Silently  each  hardy  soldier  stood  in  line,  and 
thousands  fell  at  the  post  of  duty.  Disease,  cold,  heart- 
sickness,  each  more  terrible  than  the  prowling  Indian  on 
the  border,  laid  hard  hold  of  the  silent  and  patient 
pioneer.  1  know  that  legions  died.  I  know  that  all 
suffered,  and  suffered  terribly  ;  but  1  never  heard  one 
person  complain. 

Nearly  half  a  century  has  passed.     The  pioneer  of  this 


10  '49,    THE   GOLD-SEEKER   OF   THE    SIERRAS. 

great  valley  has  gone  forever.  The  wheels  of  progress 
have  rolled  over  his  grave,  and  levelled  it  with  the  fields 
of  golden  grain.  The  silent  and  hardy  pioneer  has 
passed  into  history.  Let  the  historian  do  his  work  as 
bravely  as  did  this  unique  character,  and  the  pioneer  will 
stand  out  on  the  page  a  nobler  and  grander  hero  than 
any  figure  in  the  Spanish  Conquest. 

In  the  old  Greek  days  the  heroes  beat  upon  their 
shields  with  lance  and  sword,  and,  standing  up  before 
the  world,  loudly  proclaimed  their  deeds,  their  valor, 
their  victories,  their  suffering,  and  their  sorrows  to  all 
who  could  be  induced  to  listen.  Homer's  heroes,  the 
heroes  of  the  stage — and,  indeed,  heroes  of  all  dramas, 
from  that  day  to  the  present — have  been  so  disposed  ;  a 
loud  and  pretentious  lot.  But  the  American  hero  is  a 
silent  man. 

Make  a  note  of  this.  It  is  the  line  that  is  to  distin 
guish  the  heroes  of  the  Old  World  from  the  New.  This 
distinction  is  to  mark  the  American  drama,  the  Ameri 
can  literature,  from  that  of  the  Old  "World.  Grant  used 
but  two  words  at  Vicksburg — "  Unconditional  surren 
der." 

But  to  return  to  this  vast  camp,  teeming,  surging  in 
the  mighty  Valley  of  the  Mississippi. 

My  father,  who  was  the  schoolmaster  of  the  little 
settlement  where  dwelt  the  remarkable  man  who  has 
since  become  known  to  the  world  as  "  '49,"  was  split 
ting  rails  in  the  woods  one  Saturday  afternoon,  near  his 
log-cabin,  when  this  tall,  strong  young  neighbor,  rifle  on 
shoulder  and  squirrel  in  hand,  came  hurriedly  through 
the  thick  wood  and  stood  suddenly  before  him.  There 
was  a  strange  light  in  his  bright  black  eyes  as  he  spoke  : 

11  Squire,  they've  found  gold  away  out  yonder — six 
months'  journey  away.  Gold,  squire,  gold  in  the  banks 


"  WESTWARD,    HO  !  "  11 

of  the  rivers,  in  the  beds  of  the  rivers,  in  the  ground 
everywhere  !" 

The  man  brought  the  breech  of  his  gun  solidly  to  the 
ground,  throwing  down  his  squirrel  and  pushing  back 
his  coonskin  cap  as  my  father  straightened  up  from  his 
work  and  stood  before  him. 

He  looked  tall  and  as  hardy  as  the  trees  about  us.  He 
clinched  his  fist  emphatically,  and  throwing  it  out  toward 
the  far,  far  West,  in  the  supposed  direction  of  the  gold 
fields,  continued  : 

"  And  I'm  going  there  to  get  gold  for  Mary  and  my 
kid  Charlie,  squire — get  gold  for  'em,  and  get  out  of 
this  fever-and-ager  land." 

And  then  this  tall,  dark  man  and  my  father  sat  down 
on  a  "  rail-cut"  together,  and  talked  almost  in  whispers 
for  a  long  time.  The  squirrels  chattered  overhead  and 
leaped  from  branch  to  branch,  but  the  man  with  the  gun 
did  not  heed  them.  I  and  my  two  little  brothers  left  off 
building  our  bark-house  in  the  hollow  stump,  and  stood 
close  about  our  father's  knee  to  listen.  This  young  man, 
Charles  Devine,  was  our  nearest  and  dearest  neighbor. 
He  had  a  young  wife,  beautiful  in  soul  and  body  as  him 
self.  Then  there  was  the  little  boy-baby  lying  on  its 
back  and  crowing  in  the  cradle.  These  he  would  leave 
behind  for  a  year — only  one  year,  at  furthest — and  boldly 
strike  out  for  the  far  gold  fields  of  California. 

As  they  talked  together,  I  heard  him  chuckle  with 
delight  as  he  spoke  of  soon  returning  with  a  great  bag 
full  of  gold-dust,  and  of  pouring  it  all  out  in  the  cradle 
about  the  chubby  feet  of  his  fat,  crowing  little  baby- 
boy. 

"  Only  a  year,  squire.  You  see,  if  I  don't  strike  it  by 
that  time,  of  course  1  can  come  back  and  wrestle  with 
the  woods  here  ;  arid  shake  with  the  ager,  too,  if  I  must. 


12  '49,    THE   GOLD-SEEKER   OF  THE   SIERRAS. 

Yes,  Mary  is  willing,  and  brave  about  it,  too.  Oh,  of 
course  she'll  cry  a  bit — women  are  that  way,  you  know, 
squire.  But  I'll  put  in  the  garden  truck  before  1  start 
next  spring,  you  know.  And  then  she  always  milks  the 
cow  herself  ;  and  as  the  bit  of  land  is  paid  for,  and  the 
cabin  safe  and  solid,  roof  and  cellar,  why,  of  course  Mary 
— Mary  won't — " 

The  man's  voice  began  to  tremble  a  bit  here,  and, 
making  believe  that  he  suddenly  saw  a  squirrel  in  the 
boughs  above,  he  again  took  up  his  gun  and  found 
diversion  for  a  moment  in  trying  to  get  a  shot ;  and  then 
he  soon  went  away. 

But  he  had  stayed  long  enough  to  give  my  father  the 
fever  also,  and  before  the  next  spring  he,  too,  was  yok 
ing  up  oxen,  cows,  calves,  anything  that  could  draw,  and 
preparing  to  fall  in  with  that  greatest  caravan  which  the 
world  has  ever  witnessed. 

On  the  seventeenth  day  of  March  three  covered 
wagons,  drawn  by  long  lines  of  yoked  cattle — old,  tried, 
and  patient  steers  at  the  wheel  and  in  the  lead,  with 
bellowing  cows  and  kicking  calves  between — drew  up 
before  our  cabin  to  take  in  the  little  family,  the  pro 
visions,  and  the  few  household  goods  that  were  worth 
transportation. 

It  had  been  arranged,  after  all,  that  Charles  Devine 
was  to  go  with  my  father  as  one  of  his  men  ;  and  so  it 
chanced  that,  when  all  were  ready  to  start,  1  went  over 
with  him  to  his  cabin,  when  he  went  to  say  good -by  to 
Mary,  to  take  her  a  little  present  from  my  mother. 

There  was  a  bright  hickory -bark  fire  blazing  on  the 
hearth,  for  there  was  frost  in  the  air,  and  the  wind  blew 
keen  and  cold.  The  little  baby-boy  lay  crowing  good- 
naturedly  and  carelessly  in  the  cradle. 

But  the  young  wife's  heart  was  full  and  almost  ready 


"  WEST  WARD,    HO!"  13 

to  burst,  although  she  attempted  to  smile  as  we  en 
tered. 

"  Well,  Mary,  my  gun  and — and  belt." 

She  took  the  rifle  from  the  buck-horns  over  the 
mantelpiece  and  put  it  in  his  hand.  Then  she  took 
down  the  shot-pouch  and  powder-horn,  and,  as  he 
stooped  a  little,  put  them  tenderly  over  his  shoulder. 
After  that  she  took  the  belt,  with  its  big  sheath-knife, 
from  off  the  bedpost  back  in  the  corner  of  the  clean  and 
tidy  cabin,  and,  reaching  about  his  waist,  buckled  it 
there  silently. 

"  Good-by,  Mary  ;  good — good— 

But  she  had  turned  suddenly,  and,  leaning  her  elbows 
on  the  mantelpiece,  with  her  face  in  an  upturned  palm, 
the  tears  ran  down  like  rain,  and  her  lips  quivered  so  and 
she  trembled  so  that  she  did  not  dare  try  to  speak  at  all. 

And  then  the  man  backed  toward  the  door  by  the  cradle, 
and,  holding  his  gun  in  his  left  hand,  he  reached  the 
other  down  to  the  baby.  The  playful  little  thing  did 
not  dream  of  care,  or  trouble,  or  separation,  and  with  its 
fat  fists  doubled,  it  crowed  in  his  face  and  kicked  up  a 
chubby  little  foot.  And  so  the  man  smiled  through  his 
tears,  and  shook  that  little  foot  for  farewell.  Then  he 
hurried  through  the  door,  and  did  not  look  back.  But 
I,  close  at  his  heels,  saw  over  my  shoulder  that  Mary 
still  stood  at  the  mantel,  motionless,  voiceless,  the  picture 
of  despair. 

The  dog  came  out  of  the  kennel  in  the  corner  of  the 
yard,  and  laid  a  cold  nose  in  his  master's  hand  as  we 
hurried  away,  and  then  went  back. 

And  so  the  good-by  was  over.  And  the  stolid  oxen 
in  the  lead  were  turned  resolutely  to  the  West,  and  we 
rolled  away  in  the  wake  of  the  setting  sun. 


CHAPTER  II. 

OVER    THE     PLAINS. 

We  climbed  the  rock-built  breasts  of  earth  ! 

We  saw  the  snowy  mountains  rolled 

Like  mighty  billows  ;  saw  the  birth 

Of  sudden  dawn  ;  beheld  the  gold 

Of  awful  sunsets  ;  saw  the  face 

Of  God  and  named  it  boundless  space  ! 

IT  was  nearly  a  month  before  Devine  spoke  of  his  wife 
and  baby,  and  then  it  was  in  half  whispers  to  my 
mother,  as  we  were  camped  on  the  banks  of  the  Missouri 
River,  binding  rafts  to  carry  us  over. 

How  he  dwelt  on  every  little  detail  of  that  separation  ! 
Mary  leaning  there  against  the  mantel,  with  the  tears 
raining  down,  not  saying  one  word  ;  the  little  boy  crow 
ing  in  the  cradle,  kicking  up  his  little  chubby  foot  in  his 
face  ;  the  faithful  dog  stealing  out  to  lay  his  cold  nose 
in  his  hand,  and  then  back  to  his  kennel,  as  if  he  knew 
his  place  was  at  Mary's  side. 

Oh,  it  would  take  a  full  book  to  follow  Devine  in  his 
quiet  talks  to  my  mother,  by  the  camp-fires  of  the  tall 
and  silent  woman  he  had  left  leaning  there  by  the  man 
tel,  and  that  little  boy-baby  that  had  thrust  up  a  little 
foot  in  his  face  when  he  should  have  given  his  hand  ! 

He  would  not  talk  to  the  men  of  Mary.  He  would 
not  even  mention  her  name  to  them.  Sacred  silence  ! 
And  yet  all  his  tender  talk  to  mother  of  her  and  the  baby 
was  brimful  of  hope  and  perfect  confidence  that  all  would 
be  well  in  the  end. 


OVER   THE    PLAINS.  15 

"  Only  a  year,  inarm — only  one  year,  squire,  and  I'll 
be  by  her  side  as  she  stands  there  lean  in'  by  the  mantel 
piece,  gold  or  no  gold.  And  I'll  snatch  that  baby  up 
out  of  the  cradle  and  toss  it  up  to  the  rafters.  The 
rascal  !  to  reach  me  a  foot  when  he  ought  to  have 
reached  me  a  little  fist  !" 

And  here  the  voice  would  drop  very  low  and  tender, 
and  the  head  would  turn  aside,  and  the  man  would  seem 
to  think  of  something  to  do,  and  so  get  up  hastily  and  go 
out  and  away  by  himself. 

"What  a  multitude  !  An  army  !  The  world  will 
never  approximate  an  adequate  idea  of  that  mighty  flood 
that  burst  out  over  the  confines  of  the  border  and  flowed 
on  toward  the  distant  West. 

I  say  flowed  toward  the  far,  far  West  advisedly  ;  for 
that  mighty  flood  never  reached  the  Pacific.  It  sank 
down  in  the  deserts.  There  was  no  chronicler  then  to 
take  note.  Statistics  were  unknown.  For  seven 
months'  incessant  journey  we  were  rarely  out  of  sight  of 
new-made  graves,  and  at  some  camps  it  was  difficult  to 
find  room  for  the  tent  because  of  the  graves  ! 

Little  towns  have  taken  their  places  now,  and  no  sign 
of  these  graves  is  to  be  seen.  But  oh,  the  sickness  ! — 
the  cholera  !  — •  the  fevers  ! — the  heart-sickness  ! — the 
despair  ! 

And  steadily  the  mighty  caravan  moved  on.  Some 
times  the  whole  Plains  seemed  one  vast  sea  of  covered 
wagons  ;  then  sometimes  we  would  be  left  in  camp  with 
no  one  in  sight  but  our  own  little  company. 

I  recall,  on  one  memorable  Sunday  morning,  the  tall, 
silent  figure  of  Devine  in  battle.  We  were  camped  on 
the  headwaters  of  the  Colorado.  lie  had  thus  far 
escaped  all  maladies,  and  was  the  most  hardy  and 
efficient  of  men.  But  the  fearful  scenes  around  us  had 


1C  '49,    THE    GOLD-SEEKER   OF   THE   SIERRAS. 

made  him  now  even  more  silent  and  reserved  than  ever, 
and  he  rarely  spoke  to  any  one  but  my  mother. 

Our  train  was  known  on  the  Plains  as  the  "  Sunday 
train  ;"  for,  under  the  lead  of  my  pious  father,  we  would 
not,  under  any  circumstances,  travel  on  Sunday.  This, 
of  course,  delayed  us,  subjected  us  to  much  inconven 
ience,  and  provoked  the  derision  of  irreligious  companies. 
But  my  father  was  a  determined  man.  He  had  set  out 
to  live  as  a  Christian  on  the  Plains,  and  he  would  have 
filled  one  of  the  ten  thousand  graves  by  the  wayside 
rather  than  for  a  moment  have  departed  from  this  pur 
pose. 

On  this  Sunday  morning  prayers  were  not  yet  over 
when  a  band  of  mounted  and  half-nude  Indians  came 
like  a  whirlwind  over  the  sandy  eastern  hill.  They  had 
been  fired  upon  by  a  neighboring  carnp  of  reckless  whites 
and  were  furious. 

My  father  laid  down  the  Book,  and,  beseeching  all  to 
remain  behind,  went  out  to  meet  the  savages,  and,  if 
possible,  pacify  them.  They  circled  about  the  camp, 
yelled,  leaned  from  their  horses,  caught  up  sand  from 
the  ground,  threw  it  mockingly  at  my  father,  and  finally 
discharged  a  volley  of  arrows  into  the  neighboring  camp. 

In  a  great  hurry,  and  without  his  hat,  my  father 
rushed  back  into  the  corral,  where  he  met  Devine, 
already  armed  and  at  the  head  of  the  men,  and  going 
to  the  assistance  of  those  in  trouble. 

When  my  father,  who  never  fired  a  gun  in  all  his  life 
— for  he  was  a  Quaker  so  far  as  doctrines  of  peace  go — 
saw  that  two  men  had  been  shot  down  and  others 
slightly  wounded,  he  looked  at  Devine,  and  said, 
sharply  : 

"  Let  'em  have  it,  Charlie,  if  you  must  !" 

There  was  a  volley  from  our  men  instantly,  but  not  a 


OVER  THE   PLAINS.  17 

single  savage  unhorsed.  The  Indians  leaned  so  far  on  the 
other  side  of  their  horses  that  they  were  hard  to  hit. 
However,  in  the  next  volley  the  horse  of  the  great  black 
chief  was  fatally  shot,  and  came  flying  right  in  the  teeth 
of  our  men. 

A  little  way  from  our  corral  of  wagons  the  horse  sank 
down  in  the  sand,  and  the  great,  hairy,  black,  and  nearly 
naked  savage  lay  there,  with  one  leg  fastened  under  his 
dead  horse,  helpless.  lie  was  unarmed,  and  a  dozen 
rifles  pointed  at  his  breast. 

Over  his  shoulder  he  threw  some  hot,  fierce  words  of 
command  to  his  followers,  and,  with  a  final  Parthian 
shower  of  arrows,  they  disappeared  as  they  came. 

Then  the  mighty  savage  raised  his  hand  to  his  mouth, 
and  gave  such  a  whoop  of  defiance  as  no  man  now  can 
give. 

Devine  looked  at  his  men,  and  then  at  my  father  at 
the  door  of  the  corral.  No  one  of  the  men  ventured  to 
kill  the  defiant  savage,  and  my  father  did  not  intercede 
to  save  him.  "Why?  He  was  holding  a  dying  neighbor 
in  his  arms,  and  trying  to  draw  the  feathered  arrow  from 
his  breast.  And  so  Devine  raised  his  gun  and  shot  the 
giant  dead. 

One  of  the  men  wound  his  hands  in  the  wild  man's 
hair,  and  thus  dragged  him  into  camp  through  the  white 
sand.  Then,  when  the  sun  went  down,  three  dead  men 
— Christians  and  savage — were  laid  in  the  hollowed  white 
sand  together. 

Devine,  the  next  day,  as  we  moved  on,  was  very,  very 
thoughtful.  lie  was  even  sad,  and  he  remained  so  to 
the  end  of  the  journey. 

His  was  a  singularly  sensitive  nature.  The  great  mys 
tery  of  life  and  death,  the  dead  men  left  back  there  in 
the  burning  sand  of  the  desert,  the  black  and  hairy 


18  '49,    TUB   GOLD-SEEKEH   OF  THE   SIERRAS. 

savage  with  the  blazing  eyes  that  lie  had  shot  dead  while 
he  looked  him  in  the  face,  eye  to  eye,  soul  to  soul — all 
this  made  him  profoundly  thoughtful. 

As  we  neared  the  Sierras  the  roads  divided.  Some 
men  sought  the  mines  and  mountains  ;  others,  of  a  more 
pastoral  turn,  desired  the  valleys  and  gentler  pursuits. 
And  so,  at  the  base  of  this  mighty  wall,  as  if  it  were 
God's  citadel  guarding  all  Paradise,  the  last  camp-fire 
was  kindled. 

We,  the  few  survivors  of  the  "  Sunday  train,"  were 
about  to  separate  forever  here  in  the  sage-brush  and 
burning  sands  of  Nevada  ! 

"  You  will  go  back  to  Mary  soon  as  possible, 
Charlie  ?"  said  my  father,  as  he  held  his  hand. 

"  In  one  year,  squire  and  marm,  I'll  see  Mary.  Of 
course,  1  thought  it  would  only  be  one  year  from  the 
time  we  started  ;  bat,  you  see,  it's  been  a  seven  months' 
pull,  and  here  we  are  all  tuckered  out  and  poor  as  rats, 
and  not  a  cent  ;  and  so —  But  one  year,  squire,  in  one 
year  I'll  strike  it  and  get  back  to  Mary  leanin'  by  the 
mantel,  an' — an'  the  little  baby  crowin'  in  the  cradle. 
Say,  squire,  you  write  her — write  her  a  letter,  school 
master,  for  me,  and  say  one  year  more  and  I'll  see  baby. 
Good-by — good-by  !" 


CHAPTER  III. 

TWO   TEAKS. 

True  valor  knows  not  valor's  name  ; 

True  valor  knows  not  of  defeat ; 

No  thing  in  nature  knows  retreat, 
But,  cloud  or  sun,  keeps  on  the  same. 

IF  tins  and  succeeding  chapters  of  the  biography  of 
Charles  Devine  are  not  as  realistic  and  photographic  as 
are  the  opening,  it  is  because  1  was  no  longer  at  his  side, 
and  had  to  depend  largely  on  others  for  fact  and  incident 
concerning  him  and  his.  Yet  his  is  not  a  phenomenal 
history  at  all.  Were  this  so,  I  certainly  should  not 
trouble  either  myself  or  my  readers  with  his  story  ;  but 
1  give  it  as  a  type  of  one  of  ten  thousand. 

JVIy  father,  who  settled  far  away  to  the  north,  and 
never  saw  Devine  accain,  wrote  the  letter  as  desired. 

O  ' 

And  it  meant  a  great  deal,  this  writing  letters  at  that 
time. 

As  for  Devine,  he  could  not  write  at  all — a  not  un 
common  thing  forty  years  ago.  Boldly  he  pushed  right 
into  the  heart  of  the  Sierras  near  Downieville,  and  went 
to  work  at  once  with  a  zeal  that  bordered  on  desperation. 
He  could  scarcely  take  time  to  sleep.  With  the  first 
splendor  of  the  sun  bursting  over  the  mighty  wall  of 
snow  about  him,  he  was  forth  to  his  work. 

lie  made  few  friends.  He  had  little  to  say  to  any 
one.  His  thoughts  were  all  on  his  wife.  He  could  see 
Mary  standing  there  weeping  by  the  mantelpiece  ;  he 


20  '49,    THE   GOLD-SEEKER  OP  THE  SIERRAS. 

wanted  to  be  back  at  her  side  to  comfort  her.  He  could 
hear  that  little  boy  crowing  in  his  cradle.  He  wanted 
to  go  back  and  pour  his  bag  of  gold  at  the  baby's  feet, 
and  then  catch  him  up  and  toss  him  in  his  arms  till  he 
touched  the  rafters. 

But  the  long,  long  journey  across  the  boundless  desert, 
the  weary,  weary  tramp,  tramp,  tramp  for  more  than 
half  a  year,  had  left  the  man  weak  as  a  child. 

And  then  the  gold  was  not  as  abundant  as  men  had 
imagined.  Besides,  it  cost  much  to  live,  and  the  win 
ter  was  terribly  severe.  The  water  was  all  locked  up 
in  ice  for  long,  unbroken  months,  and  this  man,  so  far 
from  growing  rich  in  the  mines  of  California,  was,  in 
reality,  becoming  destitute — was  hungry,  starving. 

He  saw  the  seventeenth  day  of  March  come  and  go, 
while  he  sat  by  his  cabin  fire,  snowbound  and  hungry, 
half  clad  and  almost  ill,  in  a  mountain  gorge  of  Cali 
fornia. 

The  year  was  up,  yet  he  was  thousands  of  miles  away, 
and  not  an  ounce  of  gold  in  his  empty  palm.  Soon, 
however,  the  warm  winds  came  up  from  the  southern 
valleys,  and  again  the  earth  was  appealed  to  for  the 
golden  secrets  of  her  bosom. 

A  mine  was  opened  in  the  canon,  and  at  the  end  of 
two  months  of  prodigious  toil,  lifting  up  boulders  that 
required  the  strength  of  a  giant,  building  up  walls  that 
required  the  skill  of  an  architect  to  make  secure,  toiling, 
sweating,  starving,  the  man  at  last  reached  the  bed-rock 
and  began  to  find  a  few  grains  of  gold-dust. 

But  oh,  so  few  !  It  was  enough  to  make  his  great 
heart  fail  him  utterly,  this  niggardly  recompense  for  ah1 
his  toil. 

But  he  kept  on.  What  else  could  he  do  ?  There 
could  be  no  turning  back.  In  that  early  day  it  took 


TWO    YEARS.  21 

money  as  well  as  time  to  make  a  journey.  He  had  not 
thought  of  all  this.  It  had  seemed  to  him  that  he  could 
return  to  Mary  at  any  time. 

But  now  he  knew  too  well  how  many  thousands  whose 
hearts  had  failed  them  were  trying  to  beg  their  way  back 
to  the  States.  He  could  not  make  one  of  this  melan 
choly  band. 

The  flowers  came  out  on  the  hillside,  finally,  and  birds 
sang  in  the  trees  about  his  cabin.  Things  began  to  look 
more  cheerful.  He  made  up  his  mind  one  sultry  Sunday 
afternoon  that  on  the  next  Sunday  he  would  go  down  to 
Downieville  and  get  some  one  to  write  a  letter  to  Mary, 
telling  her  that  he  had  concluded  to  make  a  two-year 
task  of  it  instead  of  one. 

The  mine  in  the  canon  was  deep,  and  promised  well. 
Men  who  passed  that  way  said  it  was  only  a  question  of 
time  when  he  should  strike  it  rich  and  get  heaps  and 
heaps  of  gold.  As  yet  he  had  not  one  dollar  in  his 
purse.  He  was  even  ragged,  almost  naked.  His  food 
was  still  of  the  most  frugal  kind. 

He  laid  great  plans  for  the  coming  summer,  how 
ever.  He  would  get  some  flaming  red  flannel  shirts,  a 
great  broad  hat,  top  boots,  and  a  broad  belt  soon.  He 
would  employ  some  strong  man  to  help  to  wrestle  with 
the  great  boulders  in  the  bed  of  the  canon  just  as  soon  as 
he  struck  "  pay  dirt,"  and  then  he  would  get  out  all  his 
gold  before  the  return  of  snow  and  ice. 

These  were  his  dreams  and  hopes  on  that  sultry  Sun 
day  afternoon. 

Suddenly  the  sky  grew  dark.  The  birds  about  him 
ceased  to  sing.  A  little  brown  chipmunk,  which  he  had 
trained  to  take  crumbs  from  his  hand,  came  scrambling 
up  from  the  water  side  in  the  canon  and  clambered  to 
his  shoulder. 


22  '40,    THE    GOLD-SEEKER    OF   THE   SIERRAS. 

Above  him,  to  the  east,  the  mighty  pillars  of  snow 
stood  out  above  the  dark,  rolling  clouds,  as  if  they  were 
not  of  the  earth.  Then  there  was  a  great  sigh  of  the 
wind  ;  then  silence — darkness.  An  awful  sigh  of  the 
wind  through  the  canon  again,  and  then  a  drenching  rain 
burst  upon  the  world  ! 

The  mine  was  as  level  as  his  cabin-floor  the  next  morn 
ing.  The  squirrels  were  in  the  trees  as  before,  the  birds 
were  even  more  musical  than  ever.  But  this  man's 
shoulders  were  bowed  as  with  a  load  that  was  more  than 
he  could  bear. 

Only  yesterday  Mary  was  not  so  far  away  after  all — a 
matter  of  but  two  or  three  thousand  miles.  !Now  she 
was  millions  of  miles  away. 

The  white  and  eternal  wall  of  snow  to  the  east  lifted 
like  an  inaccessible  barrier,  cold  and  forever  impassable, 
between  them. 

He  did  not  taste  food  that  day.  lie  did  not  taste  food 
for  nearly  a  week.  His  pick  and  shovel  were  buried 
twenty  feet  in  the  bed  of  the  canon,  and  his  pocket  and 
purse  were  empty.  He  did  not  taste  food,  because 
there  was  no  food  or  money,  or  means  of  getting  either, 
within  his  reach. 

Some  miners  passing  up  the  canon  by  his  cabin  coin- 
eluded  to  look  in,  for  the  place  seemed  deserted.  A 
squirrel  was  shelling  a  pine-burr  at  the  door-sill. 

There  on  his  bed  of  pine  boughs  in  the  corner  lay 
Devine,  ill,  almost  dead  !  Fever  ?  Malaria  ?  Hunger  ? 
Heart-starvation  ? 

No  matter.     The  man  was  sick — dying,  it  seemed. 

It  was  midwinter  before  he  was  able  to  go  back  to  his 
own  cabin  from  Downieville,  where  the  kindly  miners 
had  taken  him  to  be  cared  for. 

And  what  was  there  at  that  cabin  to  return  to  ?     The 


TWO    YEARS.  23 

man  was  loaded  down,  too,  with  a  debt  of  obligation  and 
honor  that  was  heavy  indeed.  The  second  seventeenth 
day  of  March  found  this  hardy  and  once-hopeful  miner 
more  despondent  than  did  the  first. 

As  the  spring  came  on,  having  contrived,  by  working 
for  others,  to  pay  up  his  debts,  he  resolved,  in  despair, 
to  leave  this  canon,  and  seek  a  more  congenial  spot  in  or 
near  a  newer  camp  not  far  away,  known  as  Sierra. 

This  illness  and  the  obligations  it  had  placed  him 
under  had  proved  doubly  unfortunate.  It  had  thrown 
him  among  generous  but  reckless  men.  lie  felt  that  he 
wras  bound  to  be  social,  and  sociability  in  those  days 
meant  but  one  thing.  And  so,  as  he  was  now  going 
away  to  a  neighboring  camp  to  try  his  fortunes  there, 
what  could  he  do,  lie  thought,  but  take  a  farewell  drink 
with  those  who  had  been  so  generous  and  true  ?  Ah,  that 
multitude  which  no  man  can  number  who  have  yielded 
to  the  same  plausible  tempter  ! 

And  so  it  was  that  all  drank  together  again  and  again, 
and  told  their  secrets  to  each  other,  and  talked  of  rich 
mines,  of  returning  home  loaded  down  with  gold,  till 
they  forgot  the  hunger,  the  cold,  the  rags,  and  the 
wretchedness  of  the  mines. 

For  the  first  time  in  years  Devine  was  really  sociable, 
merry,  glad. 

Surely  now,  in  this  new  camp,  he  would  strike  it  soon, 
and  then  go  back,  loaded  with  wealth,  and  stand,  a 
strange,  bearded  man,  at  Mary's  side. 

That  night,  in  all  confidence  that  it  would  be  written 
and  forwarded,  he  dictated  a  warm,  hopeful,  and  even 
glowing  letter  to  his  wife  and  child. 

"With  the  morning's  sun,  a  roll  of  blankets  on  his 
back,  a  pick  and  shovel  on  his  shoulder,  and  with 
bearded  face  lifted  hopefully  to  the  snow-peaks  of  the 


24  '49,    THE   GOLD-SEEKER   OF   THE   SIERRAS. 

Sierras,  Charles  Devine  set  out  to  seek  his  fortune  a  little 
further  on. 

A  little  further  on  !  What  old  Calif ornian  has  not 
heard  that  expression — heard  it,  felt  it,  lived  it,  till  it 
became  a  part  of  his  being  ? 


CHAPTER  IV. 

IN  SIERRA. 

My  brave  •world-builders  of  the  West  ! 

Why,  who  hath  known  ye  ?     Who  doth  know 

But  I,  who  on  thy  peaks  of  snow 
Brake  bread  the  first  ?    Who  loved  ye  best, 

Who  holds  ye  still  of  more  stern  worth 

Than  all  proud  people  of  the  earth  ? 

Yea  !  I,  the  rhymer  of  wild  rhymes, 

Indifferent  of  blame  or  praise, 

Still  sing  of  ye,  as  one  who  plays 
The  same  old  air  in  all  strange  climes — 

The  same  wild,  piercing  highland  air, 

Because— because  his  heart  is  there. 

LET  us  pass  by  these  first  few  years  in  Sierra.  They 
are  so  sad,  so  like  the  two  years  in  the  desolate  canon, 
that  it  would  be  a  dreary  and  painful  repetition  to  dwell 
upon  them.  I  only  want  it  clearly  understood  that  this 
man  whose  biography  1  have  undertaken  to  write  did  his 
best. 

This  camp  of  Sierra  was  now  an  old  battlefield  of  giants. 
Mighty  men  came  here,  laid  hand  on  the  mountains, 
and  tore  them  down.  They  led  rivers  over  the  hilltops, 
and  uprooted  whole  forests  with  their  hydraulics  and 
mining  engines.  They  fought  nature  face  to  face — these 
giants,  these  horny-handed,  tall,  and  terrible  men  of  '49. 

A  few  survived.  A  few  gathered  up  gold  from  the 
placers  where  it  had  been  washed  down  the  mountains, 
and  turned  their  backs  forever  on  the  mines — old  men, 


2G  '49,    THE    GOLD-SEEKER   OF   THE   SIERRAS. 

made  old  in  a  single  decade,  gray  and  broken  from  toil 
and  care. 

A  few,  only  a  few,  of  those  giants  went  back  home. 
The  others  ?  Up  on  a  hillside,  where  a  new  forest  is 
springing  up,  and  where  the  rabbits  dance  all  the 
twilight,  and  the  quail  pipes  all  day,  they  have  laid 
down  to  rest  forever  and  forever.  The  boy  with  his 
shotgun  avoids  this  little  inclosure  on  the  hillside,  and 
steps  high  and  hurriedly,  and  looks  the  other  way,  and 
perhaps  whistles  as  he  passes. 

With  two  exceptions,  the  old  forty-niners — all  save 
the  few  that  returned  home — have  gone  up  there  on  the 
hillside.  High  up  in  the  sunlight,  nearer  the  gates  of 
God,  and  away  from  the  noise  and  rush  and  roar  of  the 
mine,  they  sleep  the  eternal  sleep. 

These  two  exceptions  were  old  "  '49"  and  his  friend, 
Colonel  Billy.  And  then  there  are  two  old  graves  that 
are  not  up  on  the  hillside.  But  they  are  down  on  a  spur 
of  hill  that  breaks  from  the  steep  arid  stupendous  moun 
tain,  and  lifts  its  rocky  back  between  the  cabin  of  old 
"  '49"  and  the  little  town  at  the  mouth  of  the  mighty 
canon. 

A  great  dead  oak  lifts  its  leafless  branches  above  these 
two  graves  ;  the  bark  is  dropping  a^vay  and  falling  on 
the  unnamed  sleepers,  and  the  long  gray  moss  swings 
above  them  mournfully  in  the  wind.  This  old  tree  died 
many,  many  years  ago,  when  these  two  men  died  at  its 
roots  and  were  buried  there.  It  ought  to  fall.  It  ought 
to  have  fallen  long  since.  But  no  ;  it  lifts  its  long,  bare 
arms  on  high,  in  mute  and  naked  pity,  lone  and  bald  and 
white  with  age.  But  more  of  these  two  graves  further 
on. 

Nobody  in  Sierra  knew  "  '49's  "  real  name  when  hs 
came,  and  so,  as  he  was  one  of  the  heroes  of  '49,  they 


IN  SIERUA.  27 

simply  called  him  "  '49,"  as  many  others  who  had  come 
thus  early  were  called  in  other  camps. 

And  whence  he  came  no  one  knew  or  cared  to  know. 
Once  or  twice,  when  he  first  began  to  have  his  periodical 
sprees  and  was  yet  counted  a  bit  respectable,  he  had,  in 
a  gush  of  confidence  and  tears  peculiar  to  warm-hearted 
men  when  first  intoxicated,  told  to  a  group  of  fellow- 
carousers  a.  pitiful  story  about  a  lone  loving  wife  and  a 
beautiful  boy-baby  in  a  cradle,  waiting  for  him  far  away. 
But  as  there  were  so  many  who  had  wives  and  babies 
waiting  for  them  far  away,  there  seemed  nothing  re 
markable  in  this  ;  and,  finding  little  sympathy,  he  locked 
up  his  heart  and  kept  his  secrets  to  himself  thereafter. 

But  about  this  time,  and  before  he  had  made  any  very 
fast  friendship  except  with  old  Colonel  Billy,  then  the 
lawyer  of  the  camp,  the  event  happened  which  put 
"  '49"  quite  outside  of  all  sympathy  or  association  with 
his  fellows. 

Being  a  man  of  observation  and  thought,  he  had 
settled  upon  a  theory  as  to  the  source  of  the  rich 
deposits  of  gold  which  had  made  the  camp  famous,  and 
had  acted  accordingly.  It  was  his  theory  that  a  vein  of 
gold-bearing  quartz  had  crossed  this  canon,  or,  more 
properly  speaking,  he  had  discovered  that  the  little 
stream  flowing  down  and  forming  the  caiion  had  crossed 
a  vein  of  gold-bearing  quartz,  and  out  of  this  quartz 
washed  down  the  deposits  of  ragged  and  quartz-loaded 
nuggets  that  lay  at  its  bed  about  the  mouth  of  the  canon. 

This  was  long  before  quartz-mining  had  been  thought 
of. 

Convinced  of  the  correctness  of  his  theory,  he  located 
his  cabin  a  good  distance  up  the  canon,  and,  having  dis 
covered  a  lead  of  white  quartz  running  along  the  rugged, 
pine-covered  back  of  one  of  the  mighty  spurs  of  the 


28  '49,    THE   GOLD-SEEKER   OF   THE   SIERRAS. 

Sierras,  shooting  down  into  the  cafion,  lie  began,  alone 
and  single-handed,  with  but  little  money,  to  drive  a 
tunnel  into  this  rocky  spur,  and  try  to  pierce  that  ledge 
of  quartz  on  the  water-level. 

The  magnitude  of  this  enterprise  oppressed  his  mind 
and  made  him  thoughtful.  And  then,  being  by  nature 
a  head  and  shoulders  taller,  mentally,  than  those  about 
him,  he  soon  found  himself  in  some  sort  isolated  from 
his  fellows. 

Besides  that,  there  was  something  about  this  tunnel 
that  the  camp  did  not  understand.  They  had  never 
heard  of  such  a  thing  at  the  time.  What  did  the  man 
mean  ?  Did  he  have  secrets  of  hidden  treasure  un re 
vealed  to  them  ?  Men  are  distrustful  of  that  which  they 
do  not  understand. 

But  he  kept  on  persistently,  patiently,  at  his  work. 
Then  it  began  to  be  rumored  that  he  was  rich.  And, 
indeed,  why  did  he  bore  away  forever  into  the  earth  if 
he  was  not  making  it  pay  ? 

Idlers  of  the  camp  began  to  speculate  as  to  the  prob 
able  amount  of  gold  he  had  hidden  away  in  that  old 
cabin,  that  smoked  and  smoked  perpetually  alongside  the 
trail  under  the  pines  on  the  rugged  hillside,  just  above 
the  muddy  little  stream. 

Soon  two  well-dressed  and  rather  respectable-looking 
strangers  rode  into  camp,  and  began  to  make  friends  with 
the  saloon-keepers  and  their  patrons.  They  asked  many 
questions  about  the  hermit  of  the  tunnel,  and,  along  with 
the  rest  of  the  men,  speculated  largely  as  to  the  probable 
amount  he  had  saved  up  from  his  work.  It  was  com 
puted  to  be  an  enormous  sum. 

Now  it  was  that  the  sad  event  happened  which  made 
his  isolation  complete. 

One  night  he  was  startled  by  finding  two  men  climb- 


IN"  SIERRA.  29 

ing  down  his  chimney.  He  caught  up  his  gun,  which 
lie  kept  all  the  time  loaded  with  buckshot.  Then,  rush 
ing  out  as  the  two  men  attempted  to  climb  from  the  low, 
broad  chimney  by  which  they  had  entered,  he  fired  as 
they  tumbled  from  out  the  crater-like  top,  and  filled 
them  both  with  buckshot. 

The  next  morning,  as  some  miners  came  up  the  canon 
from  town  to  work  their  sluices,  there,  under  a  broad 
green  oak  by  the  side  of  the  trail,  and  just  on  the  sum 
mit  of  the  ridge  that  rose  between  the  window  of  old 
"  '49V  cabin  and  the  town,  they  found  the  two  men, 
dead. 

They  had  tried  to  creep  back  to  camp.  But  they  had 
only  strength  to  drag  themselves  to  the  top  of  this  rocky 
little  ridge  ;  and  there,  under  the  oak,  the  one  resting 
his  back  against  it,  and  the  other  resting  his  head  in  the 
lap  of  his  companion,  the  two  men  were  dead. 

On  what  slender  things  hinge  the  greatest  conse 
quences  ! 

"He  was  a-holdin'  of  his  head,  as  if  to  try  to  help 
him  like  ;  and  both  stone-dead." 

This  was  what  Colonel  Billy  said,  in  a  sort  of  husky 
whisper,  to  "  '49, "when  he  told  him  that  morning  in  his 
tunnel  ;  for  the  hermit  had  not  troubled  himself  further 
than  to  fire  the  fatal  shots,  and  then  to  go  back  into  his 
cabin  and  barricade  his  door,  and  wait  the  possible 
second  attack.  But  hearing  nothing  further,  he  sup 
posed  the  robbers,  whoever  they  might  have  been,  had 
decided  that  they  had  had  enough.  And  not  knowing 
that  he  had  killed  any  one,  possibly  not  really  caring 
very  keenly  in  this  case,  he  had  gone  back  to  his  tunnel 
to  work  as  if  nothing  unusual  had  happened. 

If  the  one  had  not  crawled  into  the  arms  of  the  other  ; 
if  they  had  not  tried  to  go  back  to  town  ;  if  they  had 


30  '49,    THE   GOLD-SEEKEli   OF  THE   SIERRAS. 

not  died  there  by  the  side  of  the  trail,  under  the  great 
oak,  on  the  top  of  the  little  ridge,  and  on  the  one  pleas 
ant  spot  in  all  the  canon,  the  camp  might  not  have  cared. 

But  "  he  was  a-holdin'  of  his  head,  as  if  to  help  him 
like,  and  both  stone-dead."  And  so  the  camp  pitied 
these  men.  And  as  the  camp  pitied  these  men,  it  hated 
"'49."  The  camp  said  the  men  did  not  mean  to  rob 
him.  The  camp  said  they  were  jolly  good  fellows,  who 
only  wanted  to  frighten  the  hermit  ;  and  so  it  held  him 
responsible  for  their  deaths. 

They  dug  two  graves  there,  side  by  side,  under  the 
oak,  in  the  rotten  white  quartz  rock,  and  laid  the  two 
men  in  them,  just  as  they  had  died. 

Nobody  knew  their  names,  and  so  no  names  were 
carved  on  the  tree.  But  it  died  all  the  same.  Perhaps 
they  cut  some  of  its  roots  in  digging  the  two  graves  in 
the  bed  of  quartz. 

The  trail  took  a  little  turn  after  that  at  this  point,  and 
kept  closer  to  the  stream.  "We  don't  like  to  see  a  grave 
in  our  road.  And  yet  we  know  quite  well  that  every 
one  of  our  roads  will  end  in  a  grave. 

The  trail  took  a  little  turn  at  "  '49V  cabin,  too. 
Men  did  not  want  to  meet  a  murderer  face  to  face  every 
day.  And  so  the  trail  took  a  "  cut  off  ''  at  the  ridge  on 
which  the  cabin  stood,  a  little  further  back  from  the 
stream. 

~No  one  made  any  open  complaint  whatever  against 
this  isolated  man.  But  he  was  let  alone.  And  he  felt 
this  fearfully.  As  men  left  him  alone,  he  left  men 
alone.  The  gulf  between  him  and  the  world,  you  may 
be  sure,  did  not  grow  narrower  as  years  swept  on. 

The  ridge  that  lifted  between  him  and  the  town  was 
like  a  mighty  stone  wall,  that  never  could  be  scaled  by 
him.  But,  worst  of  all,  right  on  the  summit  of  this  lay 


IN    SIERRA.  31 

those  two  nameless  graves.  The  white  quartz  that  had 
been  thrown  out  in  digging  them,  and  that  was  heaped 
high  over  the  dead,  did  not  settle  and  sink  down  out  of 
sight.  It  did  not  turn  gray  or  brown  or  crumble  to  dust 
under  the  marching  feet  of  Time.  It  did  not  hide  down 
behind  grasses  or  wreeds  or  bushes.  But  bald  and  white 
and  ghastly  it  gleamed,  in  moon  or  sun,  rising  there  in 
eternal  testimony  against  him. 

This  cabin  of  his  had  but  one  window  in  its  one  dark 
and  desolate  room.  That  window  had  been  made  to  look 
out  down  the  canon,  over  the  ridge  and  town,  toward 
the  pleasant  valley  far  away.  This  was  the  one  lookout. 
But  up  before  this  started  the  two  graves,  like  ghosts  that 
never  would  go  away. 

Yet  the  man  kept  on  patiently  at  his  work.  Now  and 
then  he  had  protracted  spells  of  drunkenness.  Perhaps 
he  was  trying  to  forget  the  two  graves  that  glared  in  at 
him  through  the  window.  Or  was  it  the  tall  and  beauti 
ful  woman,  leaning  by  the  mantelpiece,  and  waiting  and 
waiting  far  away,  that  he  was  trying  so  hard  to  forget  ? 

He  rarely  went  to  town  except  on  these  unhappy  oc 
casions.  The  butcher  brought  him  his  meat  when  he 
ordered  it,  and  the  grocer  brought  him  his  bread  when 
he  had  money  to  pay  for  it. 

By  this  time  he  was  computed  to  be  enormously 
wealthy.  In  fact,  the  camp  had  grown  so  envious  of  his 
good  fortune,  and  so  eager  to  get  at  the  secret  of  his 
wealth,  that  two  enterprising  rascals,  Gar  Dosson  and 
Phin  Emeus,  had  secretly  started  a  tunnel  from  the  other 
side  of  the  steep,  rocky  ridge.  They  were  perfectly 
certain  he  had  found  an  enormous  deposit  of  gold. 
"Would  a  man  work  away  there  alone  five,  ten,  fifteen, 
twenty  years  for  nothing  ? 

About  this  time  a  little  girl — a  starved,  pinched,  piti- 


32  '49,    THE    GOLD-SEEKER    OF   THE    SIERRAS. 

ful  child — wasfonnd  roaming  about  camp  with  an  Indian 
woman,  who  claimed  her  as  her  daughter  ;  though  she  did 
not  look  at  all  like  an  Indian.  This  child  would  sing  or 
dance,  or  do  almost  anything  to  amuse  the  miners  and 
earn  bread  and  money  for  her  mother. 

They  went  from  cabin  to  cabin.  They  came  to  the 
cabin  of  old  "'49,"  and,  without  suspecting  that  they 
were  doing  anything  unusual,  entered,  as  he  sat  there 
looking  out  of  the  window  at  the  two  white  spots  on  the 
ridge. 

The  desolate  man  started  to  his  feet.  No  one  save 
himself  and  Colonel  Billy  had  crossed  that  threshold  for 
nearly  a  quarter  of  a  century.  At  first  he  was  angry — 
very  angry.  And  then  he  was  glad — very  glad.  His 
heart  went  out  to  this  little  girl.  He  was  so  glad  they 
had  not  heard  about  the  dead  men.  He  had  grown 
morbid  during  all  these  years.  He  feared  some  one 
might  tell  the  child,  and  make  her  shun  him.  And  so 
he  treated  her  with  all  the  tenderness  of  a  father. 

By  and  by  she  disappeared.  This  nearly  broke  his 
heart.  They  had  been  such  friends.  At  last  he  found 
that  she,  with  her  mother,  had  been  taken  to  the  Indian 
Reservation — to  the  Reservation  to  die  !  For  the  first 
time  in  more  than  twenty  years  this  singular  man  fas 
tened  up  his  cabin  and  went  away.  He  bought  a  horse 
in  the  valley,  and  rode  night  and  day  till  he  reached  the 
Reservation. 

The  mother  was  already  dead — if  mother  she  was — and 
the  child  dying.  He  took  the  little  skeleton  in  his  arms, 
hid  her  under  his  blanket,  skulked  through  the  post  to 
\vhere  his  horse  stood  tethered,  and,  mounting,  bore  the 
dying  creature  back  to  life  and  health  in  the  mountains. 

Soon  a  smoke  was  seen  curling  up  from  "  '49V  cabin 
in  its  old  tired  fashion,  and  the  miners  laiew  he  had 


IN    SIERRA.  33 

come  back.  It  was  a  matter  of  indifference  to  all,  of 
course.  Men  spoke  of  the  fact  only  as  folks  speak  of 
the  weather. 

"  '49"  had  said  to  Colonel  Billy  one  evening  as  this 
child  stood  between  his  knees  : 

"  Why,  Billy,  she  is  twenty  carats  !  Yes,  she  is 
twenty  carats  fine,  Billy  !" 

But  old  Colonel  Billy,  who  had  less  sentiment  than 
whiskey  in  him,  only  called  her  "  Carrots"  in  answer  to 
the  eulogy  of  his  friend  ;  and  so  ' '  Carrots' '  she  was  called 
by  the  camp  after  that.  But  '"49,"  with  loving  adroit 
ness,  succeeded  sometimes  in  twisting  this  name  into 
"Carrie." 

By  this  time  there  had  come  into  camp  a  certain,  or, 
rather,  uncertain,  old  woman  with  her  daughter  ;  and, 
later,  they  were  employed  at  the  saloon  of  Gar  Dosson, 
to  decoy  miners  to  the  gaming-tables  and  the  bar. 

And  yet  it  was  whispered  that  the  girl  was  not  the 
daughter  of  "  Old  Mississip,"  as  the  woman  was  called, 
but  that  she  was  one  of  the  survivors  of  the  Mountain 
Meadow  Massacre,  whom  the  old  woman  for  a  trifling 
present  had  purchased  from  the  Indians. 

Socrates,  perhaps  the  wisest  of  the  wise  fools  of  old, 
said  that  the  only  wholly  happy  being  is  the  convalescent. 
In  this  truth  I  find  an  explanation  for  the  unaccountable 
calm  and  tranquil  tenderness  that  now  took  possession  of 
Carrie.  After  the  terrible  scenes  just  passed,  one  would 
say  that  she  should  have  wept  herself  away  and  died  of 
grief.  On  the  contrary,  she  never  spoke  of  the  past,  or 
seemed  to  think  of  it  at  all.  Day  after  day  she  grew 
stronger,  and  day  by  day  took  longer  walks  up  the  steep 
hillsides  to  gather  wild  flowers  for  "  '49,"  and  such 
fruits  and  roots  as  the  ground  and  bushes  bear  in  that 
altitude. 


34  '49,    THE   GOLD-SEEKER   OF  THE   SIEItEAS. 

One  evening,  as  "  '49"  came  home  from  his  tunnel, 
where  he  now  worked  incessantly  from  dawn  till  dusk, 
lie  saw  a  man  stooping  and  stealing  away,  in  the  twi 
light,  from  the  low  window  of  the  cabin.  Who  was  this 
man  ?  And  what  did  he  want  ?  Was  it  the  gold  which 
lie  was  supposed  to  possess,  or  the  girl  ? 

There  was  a  battered  old  bulldog,  with  three  legs,  a 
hare-lip,  and  no  ears  or  tail  to  speak  of,  down  on 
Batcher's  Flat. 

This  dog  was  old,  and  seemed  almost  useless  now. 
But  he  had  been  terrible  in  his  day.  At  night  he  had 
been  used  for  years  as  the  one  and  only  watch  at  the  ex 
press-office,  where  he  slept,  or  pretended  to  sleep,  with 
only  one  eye  shut,  on  a  heap  of  gold  dust  as  big  as  a 
Mexican's  wash-bowl.  By  day  this  enormous  brute  had 
been  used  by  the  butchers  to  catch  and  throw  Mexican 
cattle. 

But  now  that  the  glory  had  departed  from  the  camp, 
and  the  gold  and  the  butchers  with  it,  the  old  and  ugly 
bulldog  became  a  sort  of  pensioner,  limping  like  a  neglect 
ed  soldier  from  door  to  door,  eating  the  bread  of  charity. 

"  '49"  went  down  and  got  the  bulldog  and  brought 
him  into  his  cabin.  A  great  leather  collar  was  buckled 
about  his  neck,  and  a  heavy  log-chain  bound  him  to  the 
bedpost. 

The  old  dog  liked  this.  He  knew  that  this  prepara 
tion  meant  war  ;  and  he  was  fond  of  battle. 

He  became  as  savage  as  a  hunted  grizzly.  Let  even  a 
rat  cross  the  roof,  or  rasp  the  boots  or  tin  cans  around 
that  cabin,  and  the  old  warrior  would  be  in  arms  in  a 
moment.  If  a  stranger  neared  the  place,  he  would  roar 
like  a  Numidian  lion.  Yet  to  the  two  inmates  of  this 
dark,  low,  and  ever-stooping  cabin,  he  was  tenderness 
personified. 


1ST    SIERRA.  35 

Tho  man  and  the  young  girl  were  drawn  closer  to 
gether  now  than  ever  before.  In  the  tranquil  twilight, 
after  his  hard  day's  work  in  the  tunnel,  he  often  hinted 
at  vague  bits  of  his  own  life  ;  of  a  wife  left  behind,  of  a 
little  baby-boy  in  the  cradle.  Ah,  yes  !  he  would  see 
that  baby  sometimes,  "  when  he  struck  it  in  the  tun 
nel,"  the  old  man  would  say,  with  a  sigh,  at  the  end  of 
his  story,  as  lie  knocked  the  ashes  out  of  his  pipe. 

He  seemed  to  think  he  would  still  find  that  baby  in  its 
cradle.  Years  and  years  had  passed,  but  still  it  was  only 
a  baby  to  him.  And  why  had  he  not  returned  ?  "Why 
had  nearly  a  hundred  thousand  men  in  those  mountains 
never  returned  ? 

He  told  her  of  a  promise  made  his  wife  at  marriage. 
It  was  that  each  should  on  Christmas  Eve  sing  a  certain 
song,  and  so  think  of  the  other.  No  matter  where  they 
were  or  what  transpired,  they  would  each,  at  the 
moment  of  midnight,  begin  this  song. 

This  explained  to  the  girl  why  the  old  man  had  at  the 
very  first  taught  and  made  her  sing  a  certain  old  song  on 
Christmas  Eve.  And  now  she,  too,  became  confidential, 
and  began  to  tell  a  story  of  the  desert,  of  murder,  and 
scenes  too  terrible  to  dwell  upon.  But  when  the  old 
man  looked  at  her  sceptically,  and  shook  his  head,  she 
stopped  and  said,  "  Perhaps,  after  all,  it  was  only  a 
dream,"  and  never  mentioned  it  again. 

And  so  the  first  few  months  after  the  return  from  the 
Reservation  were  very  tranquil — calmer,  higher,  holier 
than  any  of  the  former  days. 

But  this  did  not  last.  The  man  must  go  to  town  to 
get  his  pick  sharpened  and  his  drills  hardened.  The  re 
sult  is  easily  guessed.  He  fell  into  his  old  ways.  Soon 
Carrie  was  seen  once  more  among  the  rough  men  late  at 
night,  helping,  coaxing,  comforting  the  tottering  old 


36  '49,    THE   GOLD-SEEKER   OF   THE   SIERRAS. 

man,  and  trying  to  get  him  back  to  the  cabin.  Then  the 
hard  and  heartless  ones  began  again  to  banter  and  bully 
her  ;  and  as  of  old,  when  but  a  child,  she  answered  back, 
and  often  gave  as  much  as  she  received.  She,  too,  was 
fast  falling  back  to  something  harder  than  her  hard  life 
before. 

Dosson  and  Emens  watched  every  word  and  action  of 
"  '49."  They  were  still  certain  that  he  was  a  miser, 
with  hundreds  of  ounces  of  hoarded  gold,  and  they  drove 
their  tunnel  on  their  side  of  the  ridge  straight  for  the 
centre  with  all  the  force  and  energy  that  their  strong 
arms  could  command.  Soon  "  '-49"  came  to  know  of 
this.  lie  was  almost  wild  with  rage.  Then  he  wept 
like  a  child. 

11  Only  to  think  !  After  nearly  twenty- five  years  !"  he 
said  to  Carrie.  Then  he  went  on  a  protracted  spree, 
from  which  the  girl  reclaimed  him  only  after  a  long  and 
patient  effort. 

Dosson  and  Emens  were  now  men  of  importance  in 
the  camp.  They  had  opened  a  grocery  and  gambling- 
saloon.  This  soon  was  the  headquarters  of  the  camp, 
and  all  the  miners  gathered  together  and  gambled  here. 

And  "  '49"  came  here  also.  Yet  between  himself 
and  Dosson  and  Emens  there  was  at  best  only  an  armed 
neutrality.  Old  Colonel  Billy,  the  bosom-friend  of 
"  '49"  in  all  his  unhappy  carousals,  was  accustomed  to 
shake  his  head  and  say,  solemnly,  that  some  one  would 
"  die  with  his  boots  on"  yet,  and  that  it  would  not  bo 
'"49." 

And  who  was  Colonel  Billy  ?  A  man  who  had  never 
been  known  to  refuse  a  drink  in  his  life — a  true  Cali- 
fornian.  He  was  also  a  very  old  and  a  very  rickety 
man.  He  had  once  been  a  great  lawyer,  and  had  pulled 
many  of  the  boys  through  after  one  of  their  periodical 


I^   SIERRA.  37 

rows.  But  Colonel  Billy  had  come  in  the  spring  of  '50, 
and  so  stood  only  as  a  sort  of  lieutenant  to  this  old 
veteran  general  who  had  come  in  the  fall  of  '49. 

But  perhaps  these  are  distinctions  that  only  Cali- 
fornians  can  understand. 

How  these  two  old  men  loved  each  other  !  Was  it 
because  they  had  nothing  else  to  love  ?  Was  it  because 
the  world  had  gone  on  by  the  other  way  and  left  them 
standing  here  alone  like  two  storm-blown  pines  on  a 
windy  hill,  that  they  leaned  toward  each  other  ?  1  do 
not  know  ;  but  I  like  to  see  the  love  of  old  men.  Like 
to  see  it  ?  I  revere  it.  It  is  the  tenderness  and  the 
holiness  of  a  Sabbath  sunset. 

Dosson  and  Emens,  as  I  have  said,  worked  in  their 
tunnel  by  day.  By  night  they  looked  after  their  drink 
ing  and  gambling  den.  They  did  everything  to  make  it 
popular  for  "the  boys,"  and  they  got  monstrous  old 
"  Mississip"  to  deal  faro  for  them. 

This  old  woman's  daughter  was  almost  as  coarse  and 
heartless  as  her  wretched  old  mother.  "  And  that  is  put 
ting  it  pretty  hard  on  Belle  l  Sip,'  "  said  Colonel  Billy. 

Sometimes  they  had  dancing  in  this  "  Deadfall." 
Women  were  scarce  ;  and,  indeed,  it  was  impossible  to 
get  decent  women  to  enter  here.  And  so  it  was  that 
Carrie  was  persuaded,  almost  pressed,  into  service.  She 
danced  well,  and  to  the  miners  no  evening  seemed  com 
plete  without  her. 

Gradually  but  certainly  this  little  creature  was  sinking 
down  into  the  mud  and  the  slime  from  which  u  '49"  had 
rescued  her,  and  no  hand  reached  out  to-  hold  her  back. 
Now  and  then  Dosson  gave  her  a  piece  of  money.  He 
did  not  know  that  this  went  to  buy  bread  for  the  old 
man,  every  cent  of  it,  while  she  had  not  clothes  to  keep 
her  from  shame  ;  but  so  it  was. 


CHAPTER  V. 

A   FRAGMENT. 

How  stranger  the  half-bidden  story  ! 
How  fairer  the  far  stars  of  heaven 
When  seen  through  the  clouds,  tempest-driven, 

With  storms  streaming  over  their  glory  ! 

THE  events  that  follow  were  sudden  and  rapid  in  their 
changes.  This  makes  them  necessarily  fragmentary,  for 
1  was  not  a  witness  of  all.  And  so  it  is  that  I  prefer  to 
leave  some  things  to  the  imagination  of  the  reader  rather 
than  to  draw  upon  my  own. 

It  is  a  matter  of  record  that  one  of  the  old  French 
families  of  St.  Louis — Creoles- — was  in  that  unfortunate 
train  of  emigrants  who  were  set  upon  and  slaughtered  by 
the  Danites,  or  Mormons  and  Indians,  in  what  is  known 
to  the  world  as  the  Mountain  Meadow  Massacre. 

At  that  time  this  family  owned  a  piece  of  land  on  the 
outskirts  of  St.  Louis.  It  was  almost  worthless  then  ; 
but  in  years  it  came  to  be  of  prodigious  value,  and  eager 
search  was  made  for  the  heirs. 

The  story  ran,  that  out  of  the  many  children  who 
escaped  massacre,  the  dark,  low-browed  Belle  "Sip,"  of 
Sierra,  could  be  named  as  the  heir. 

Of  course,  this  was  only  a  vague  rumor.  But  it  was 
enough  to  inspire  Gar  Dosson — who  had  even  made 
advances  toward  poor,  ragged  Carrie — with  a  singular 
regard  for  the  dark,  Creole-looking  girl,  and  he  paid 
eager  court  to  her  accordingly.  Yet  at  the  same  time  he 


A    FRAGMENT.  39 

loved — if  lie  was  capable  of  love — the  wild  and  wily 
little  girl  of  the  woods  far  better  than  he  did  the  low 
browed  and  sullen  Belle.  And  Belle  knew  it,  too — for 
women  have  a  singularly  direct  way  of  going  to  the  truth 
of  such  things — and  so  she  hated  and  abused  the  little 
child- woman  bitterly. 

Meantime,  in  St.  Louis,  Judge  Snowe,  an  old  and  able 
lawyer,  was  at  work.  He  had  suddenly  become  informed 
of  the  presence  of  this  girl  Belle,  in  Sierra,  and  was  now 
about  to  send,  with  all  speed  possible,  a  young  and  en 
terprising  confidential  friend  to  find  her  out  and  inform 
her  of  her  possible  fortune  and  position  in  the  world. 

The  young  man,  the  confidential  friend,  Charles 
Devine,  was  the  son  of  a  widow  (a  California  widow,  so 
called  ;  for  her  husband  had  gone  to  California,  and  had 
never  been  heard  from  afterward),  and  a  bright  young 
man,  too,  in  some  things.  Yet,  perhaps,  he  had  in  most 
tiling^  more  heart  than  head.  His  mother,  a  pious 
gentlewoman,  had  a  nameless  terror  of  California ;  for 
had  her  husband  not  perished  there  ?  Hence  she  could 
not  think  of  letting  her  son  go  on  this  expedition.  But 
go  he  must,  and  so  he  had  decided  to  leave  without  her 
knowledge  of  his  destination. 

On  the  evening  fixed  by  the  good-hearted  though 
gruff  old  lawyer  for  his  secretary's  departure,  a  gayly- 
dressed  young  man  entered  the  widow's  humble  home 
and  asked  to  see  her. 

The  door  had  been  opened  by  a  white-headed  old 
negro,  who  lingered  about  and  lifted  his  nose  high  in  the 
air  whenever  he  came  near  the  young  man,  as  if  he 
sniffed  some  unusual  odor. 

Tin's  modern  youth  of  fashion  was  the  fast  friend  of 
Charles  Devine,  whom  he  supposed  had  just  set  out 
on  his  hurried  visit  to  the  heart  of  the  Sierras.  And 


40  '49,    THE   GOLD-SEEKER   OF   THE    SIERRAS. 

fast  friend  he  was,  too,  in  more  senses  than  one.  For 
the  high  boot-heels  of  Thomas  Gully  were  often  none  too 
certain  in  their  tread.  He  was  now  engaged  in  rolling  a 
cigar  between  his  thumb  and  finger,  and  fumbling  in  his 
pocket  for  a  match.  The  old  negro  lolled  about,  wagged 
his  woolly  head,  and  put  up  his  hands  in  silent  protest. 

"  Where's  your  missus,  Sam  ?"  asked  the  visitor. 

"  Gone  to  prayer-rneetin',  sah." 

"  Gone  to  prayer-meeting,  eh  ?  Well,  reckon  I'll 
wait  till  she  gets  back.  Here' s  a  half  dollar.  Bring  me 
a  match. ' ' 

The  negro  twisted,  and  hobbled  about,  and  finally  said, 
with  hesitation  : 

"  Gemmen  don't  smoke  in  a  lady's  parlor,  sah." 

The  man  merely  smiled  as  he  handed  the  servant  his 
shining  hat,  after  finding  a  match  in  his  vest  pocket 
and  lighting  it.  Money  had  been  appropriated  at  the 
Bank.  He  had  come  to  accuse  his  fellow-clerk,  the 
widow's  son,  and  save  himself,  now  that  Devine  was  gone. 

He  puffed  his  cigar  almost  to  a  blaze,  threw  himself 
into  a  chair,  and  flung  his  legs  almost  as  high  as  his 
head,  laying  them  across  the  corner  of  the  table  and  on 
the  old  family  Bible. 

The  negro  snatched  the  book  away,  almost  upsetting 
the  visitor  in  doinsr  so. 

o 

"  Want  to  make  it  more  comfortable  for  your  legs  ; 
thought  de  Bible  might  hurt  your  legs,"  observed  the 
old  negro,  as  he  dodged  a  hymn-book  and  limped  out  of 
the  room.  As  Gully  sat  arranging  his  faultless  attire, 
Mr.  Snowe,  with  Sam  at  his  heels,  entered  the  parlor. 
The  old  lawyer  laid  down  his  bag,  and  kept  on  talking 
to  the  negro. 

"Not  here,  Sam  ?  Why,  he  promised  to  meet  me 
here  ;  promised  to  be  at  home  here,  waiting  for  me." 


A    FRAGMEXT.  41 

"  That  old  fox  liere  ?"  muttered  Gully,  over  his 
shoulder.  "  I  feel  like  jumping  through  the  window." 

Again  the  old  negro  began  to  limp  and  stutter. 

"  I'm  very  sorry,  Massa  Snowe.  But  he  is  not  here. 
P'r'aps  dat  gemmen,"  pointing  to  Gully,  "  know  whar 
he  is,  Massa  Snowe.  lie  goes  with '  im  a  good  bit.  Lor', 
I  wish  ho  war  a  gemmen,"  and  he  limped  away. 

"Ah,  good-evening,  Judge  Snowe,  good-evening. 
So  delighted  to  see  you,"  said  the  man  of  faultless  ap 
parel.  "  Yes,  Charley  has  gone — gone  suddenly  to 
California.  lie  could  not  bear  to  say  good-by  to  his 
mother,  so  he  sent  me,  you  know,  to  say  good-by  for 
him." 

The  old  lawyer  picked  up  his  bag  and  came  toward  his 
informant,  gruff  and  crabbed.  "But  he  has  not  gone. 
Only  to-day  he  promised  to  meet  me  here,  and  he  will 
be  here." 

"  He  will  not  be  here.  I  saw  him  to  the  depot  my 
self."  As  Gully  spoke,  Charley  Devine,  singing 
snatches  of  songs,  entered  the  parlor. 

"  You  back  ?"  cried  Gully. 

"Back  again,  like  a  bad  penny,"  laughed  Devine. 
"  You  see,  Gully — you  see,  I  was  waiting  there  at  the 
depot — hie— such  a  crowd  !  Well,  while  1  was  waiting 
there,  I  saw  the  game  going  on.  All  down  !  Down 
your  bets  !  Monte  !  Faro  !  Roulette  !  Forty  to  one 
on  the  eagle-bird.  Forty  to  one  on  the  eagle-bird  at 
roulette  !" 

At  this  Gully  began  to  be  interested.  Devine  did  not 
as  yet  perceive  Mr.  Snowe. 

"  Well,  well  2"   cried  Gully,  eagerly. 

"  Foity  to  one  on  the  eagle-bird,  just  think  of  it  ! 
Forty  times  five  hundred — twenty  thousand  dollars — and 
you  in  with  me,  you  know." 


42  '49,    THE    OOLD-SEEKEH    OF   THE    SIERRAS. 

"  Why,  ho  has  won  twenty  thousand  dollars,"  thought 
Gully.  "  A  fool  for  luck  !  By  the  holy  poker,  that 
will  just  make  up  the  loss  of  the  bank.  We  were  both 
in  together,  you  know,  Charley,"  he  eagerly  added, 
aloud. 

"  Yes,  both  in  together,  you  know.  Well,  I  just  took 
my  five  hundred  dollars  in  my  fist  and  I  marched  straight 
up  to  that  table,  and  1  planked  her  down  on  the  eagle- 
bird — every  cent — and  cried,  '  Roll,  roll  !  Turn,  turn, 
turn  !  Five  hundred  dollars  on  the  eagle-bird  !  Twenty 
thousand  dollars  or  nothing  !  Turn,  turn,  turn  !  ' 

"Well,  well?" 

"  Five  hundred  dollars  on  the  eagle-bird  !  Twenty 
thousand  dollars  or  nothing  !  Turn,  turn,  turn  !" 

"  Well,  well?" 

"  And  he  turned,  you  know,  and — 

"  And,  and—  ?" 

"  And  the  eagle-bird  lost  !" 

"  Oh,  the  fool  !"  growled  Gully.  "  Oh,  the  reckless, 
drunken  gambler  I" 

The  old  lawyer,  now  approaching  Charley  and  putting 
his  hand  on  his  shoulder  in  a  kind,  fatherly  fashion, 
said  : 

"  Charley,  Charley,  you  are  drinking  again.  You 
will  break  your  old  mother's  heart  !"  The  old  lawyer 
with  all  his  roughness  had  a  tender  heart,  and  again  and 
again  had  forgiven  and  restored  Charley  when  he  had 
"  fallen  a  victim  to  his  only  failing."  "  I  will  save  him 
yet,  there  is  good  stuff  in  him. " 

'"  My  mother  !"  exclaimed  Devine,  in  a  startled  tone. 
"  Don't  say  a  word  to  her  !  I — I — I  will  reform  now." 

"  Well,  well,  Charley,"  said  Snowe,  taking  the  young 
man's  hand,  "  you  have  promised  me  that  before  and  I 
have  trusted  you.  1  trust  you  again.  Maybe  I  am  a  fool 


A    FRAGMENT.  43 

for  doing  so.  Prove  that  I  am  not.  I  must  trust  you 
now.  About  this  business  of  mine.  Come,  be  sober  ; 
be  a  man.  You  promised  to  start  on  this  business  this 
very  night.  You  are  the  only  man  that  understands  the 
case.  You  are  the  only  man  I  can  trust.  Can  you  go  ? 
Are  you  lit  to  go  ?  Do  you  remember  what  you  have  to 
do  ?" 

Charley  Devine  nervously  passed  his  hand  across  his 
face. 

"Why,  of  course,  I  do.  A  girl — a  child  of  one  of 
the  wealthy  old  Creole  families — a  lost  girl  that  old  black 
Sam  had  charge  of — one  of  the  orphans  of  the  Mountain 
Meadow  Massacre— now  an  heiress — a  great  estate  wait 
ing  for  her.  And  you  think  you  have  a  clew — you  think 
she  is  in  the  mountains  near  Sierra." 

Tom  Gully  listened  intently. 

"  An  heiress — a  lost  girl  in  the  mountains  !  An 
heiress  !" 

"  1  am  to  go  and  search  for  her.  My  salary  you  are 
to  hand  over  to  my  mother  till  I  return,1'  said  Charley, 
finally. 

"  Right,  my  boy  !"  exclaimed  Snowe  ;  "  and  now  you 
must  be  off.  Here  is  more  money  ;  now  do  not  play  the 
fool  again  and  lose  it.  Sam  !" 

"  Yes,  Massa  Snowe." 

"  You  are  sure  you  would  know  that  child  still  ?" 

"  Sure,  Massa  Snowe,  sure  !  I  would  know  dat  chile 
— why,  I  would  know  dat  chile  in — Jerusalem  !  Why, 
Massa  Snowe,  she'd  know  dis  ole  black  face,  sure  ! 
She'd  come  right  up  to  dis  ole  cripple  now." 

"  Ah,  but  you  must  remember  it  is  now  more  than 
twelve  years  since  the  Mormons  and  Indians  murdered 
her  parents  and  took  her  from  your  arms  on  the  plains, 
laid  t>lie  was  scarcely  six  years  old  at  the  time." 


44  '49,    THE   GOLD- SEEKER   OF   THE   S1EIIHAS. 

"  But  I'd  know  her,  sure  !  And  she — she'd  know 
dis  ole  black  face.  Dar  ain't  many  of  my  kind,  Massa 
Snowe,  up  in  dem  white  mountains  ;  an'  den,  oh,  Massa 
Snowe,  she'd  know  my  songs  !  She'd  fly  to  me  like  a 
bird,  she  would  !' ' 

"  Your  songs  !"  exclaimed  the  lawyer,  thoughtfully  ; 
"  did  you  sing  much  to  her,  Sam  2" 

"  Allers,  allers,  on  dem  ole  plains,  Massa  Snowe. 
Why,  she  knowed  my  songs,  every  one  ;  she'd  sing  a 
vus  an'  den  I'd  sing  a  vus  ;  and  you  see,  if  she  hear  me 
sing  now,  ehe'd  come  a  runnin'  right  to  me — 'fore  God 
she  would,  Massa  Snowe  1" 

"  That  will  do,  Sam.  Now,  Charley,  you.  must  be 
off,  and  at  once  !  Mind,  they  are  trying  to  impose  a 
false  claimant  on  us,  and  it's  hard  to  disprove  their 
claims.  But  this  old  negro's  evidence  will  be  conviction 
strong  as  Holy  Writ.  Now,  Sam,  you  can  go  ;  and 
remember,  if  this  girl  is  found,  your  fortune  is  made." 

"  I  don't  want  no  fortune,  Massa  Snowe.  1  wants  to 
see  dat  chile  once  before  I  dies — poor,  poor  baby  in  de 
mountains." 

The  old  negro,  with  his  sleeve  to  his  eyes,  had  hobbled 
back  to  the  door  and  was  disappearing,  when  the  lawyer 
looked  up  from  the  papers  he  had  taken  from  the  bag 
and  spoke  : 

"  1  -say,  Sam,  do  you  think  there  are  any  marks  by 
which  she  can  certainly  be  identified  ?  Listen  to  this, 
Charley.  Give  your  special  attention  to  this." 

The  negro  stopped  and  threw  up  his  hands.  Then  he 
came  back  and  stood  before  the  lawyer,  who  began  to 
write  as  the  old  cripple  began  to  talk. 

"  Marks  ?  Marks,  Massa  Snowe  ?  Marks  dat  she  will 
take  wid  her  to  her  coffin  !  Yes  !  Why,  dar  come  de 
Mormons,  painted  red,  and  howlin',  and  a-clioppin'  an' 


A   FRAGMENT.  45 

a-shootin',  an'  a-stabbin'.  Oh,  Massa  Snowe,  it  makes 
me  sorry  ;  it  makes  me  sick  to  t'ink  of  it.  A  whole 
heap  of  women  and  babies  heaped  togedder  in  de  grass 
and  dusty  road,  dead.  And  den  dis  little  gal  a-iiestliti' 
up  to  me,  a-liidiu'  in  ole  Sam's  busurn  when  I  lay  like 
dead  in  de  grass.  And  den  when  all  was  still,  an'  de 
Mormons  came  up  friendly  like,  she  crept  out,  an'  de 
blood  was  a-runnin'  down  her  arm  ;  den  dey  took  her  off 
and  away  from  her  ole  black  Sam  ;  an'  all  her  folks  was 
dead  ;  and  dere  was  a  great  bloody  gash,  dar  !" 

The  old  negro  was  almost  wild  with  excitement  as  he 
told  this,  and  pointed  on  his  arm  to  the  place  of  the 
wound.  Then  he  hobbled  back  to  the  door,  and  out,  as 
he  wagged  his  head  and  said,  as  to  himself  : 

"  Know  her  ?  Know  dat  chile  ?  I'd  know  dat  chile 
in  Jerusalem,  I  would  !" 

"  That,  Charley,  is  the  child  you  are  to  find,"  ob 
served  Snowc.  "  A  large  tract  of  land  on  which  a  city 
lias  since  been  built  was  the  property  of  her  parents  at 
the  time  of  the  massacre,  and  she  is  the  sole  heiress.  Of 
course  there  are  many  pretenders  to  this  fortune  ;  but 
this  1  know  is  the  real  heiress,  and  I  am  quite  certain, 
from  what  I  heard  last  week,  she  has  drifted  into  the 
mines  of  California,  and  can  be  found  there.  I  have 
gone  over  this  pretty  often,  Charley,  and  now  I'm  done 
with  it,"  said  the  old  lawyer,  as  he  arranged  his  papers, 
scaling  them  with  red  sealing-wax. 

''  1  see  a  point  !  It's  the  biggest  thing  out — a  mine 
of  gold — a  regular  bonanza  mine  to  any  man  who  has  the 
nerve  to  work  it,"  said  Gully  to  himself. 

"Charley,"  observed  the  lawyer,  "one  word  more. 
You  see,  in  the  great  Mountain  Meadow  Massacre,  the 
Indians,  led  by  the  Danites,  killed  all  except  the  chil 
dren.  The  little  orphans,  forty  or  fifty  in  number,  were 


46  '49,    THE   GOLD-SEEKER   OF   THE   SIERRAS. 

taken  up  by  the  Mormons  and  Indians,  and  in  a  few 
years  were  almost  forgotten.  I  have  sent  agents  search 
ing  everywhere  and  questioning  about  every  one  I  could 
hear  of,  but  hitherto  1  have  been  always  disappointed. 
But  now  1  have  a  new  hope,  and  with  care  it  shall  be 
come  a  reality."  lie  stopped  talking  here,  paused  a 
moment,  and  said  :  "  It  is  a  beautiful  and  very  strange 
superstition  of  the  Indians,  that  they  must  not  kill  a 
negro.  An  Indian  of  the  Plains  will  not  kill  a  negro. 
In  this  case,  they  spared  old  Sam  only  because  he  was 
black.  I  have  the  greatest  possible  hope  ;  for  if  the 
child  can  remember  anything  at  all,  she  can  remember 
old  black  Sarn.  Charley,  it  shall  be  your  task  to  find 
her." 

"  A  delightful  task  !"  cried  Charley.  "  I  shall  so 
like  to  get  out  and  up  into  the  mountains,  into  the  heart  of 
the  Sierras.  Such  scenery  !  Such  air  !  The  smell  of 
the  fir  and  tamarack  !  An'  I  shall  reform  there." 

The  old  lawyer  turned,  took  the  lad's  hand,  and,  look 
ing  him  long  and  earnestly  in  the  face,  as  he  had  often 
done  before  this,  shook  his  hand  cordially  :  "  And  now, 
Charley,  you  are  to  go  directly  to  Sierra,  and  sit  down 
there  quietly  in  the  heart  of  the  mountains.  Get  all  the 
information  you  can  about  her  ;  get  acquainted  with  her 
quietly  ;  get  her  confidence  ;  find  out  what  she  remem 
bers  of  the  old  negro,  and  all  ;  and  when  you  arc  con 
vinced  that  she  is  really  the  heiress,  I  will  come  with 
black  Sam  to  satisfy  the  law  that  we  have  made  no  mis 
take.  Come,  it's  just  the  enterprise  for  a  man  of  nerve 
and  heart.  And  you  really  don't  need  much  head  for 
this,  you  know,"  and  the  lawyer  laughed  good- 
naturedly.  "  All  you  want  is  heart."  And  in  an 
envelope  he  laid  the  papers  on  the  table. 

"  You  say  she's  very  rich  ?"  observed  Charley. 


A    FRAGMENT.  47 

11  The  richest  girl,  perhaps,  in  California.  A  city  has 
been  built  on  her  land  ;  there  is  no  computing  her 
wealth." 

Gully's  eyes  feasted  for  a  moment  on  the  papers.  It 
was  a  hungry  stare — a  stare  that  wras  held  in  fascination. 

"  You  can  goat  once,"  said  the  lawyer. 

"  The  biggest  thing  in  America  !  Go!  I  see  a  fortune 
in  it — a  fortune,  do  you  hear  ?  Go,  find  this  girl.  Find 
her,  woo  her,  win.  her,  marry  her  !  And  don't  let  her 
know  she  is  an  heiress  until  it's  all  over,"  suddenly 
exclaimed  Gully. 

The  lawyer  started.     "  A  friend  of  yours,  Charley  ?" 

"  His  oldest  and  best,"  said  Gully  ;  then  confidentially 
to  Charley  :  "  Woo  her,  win  her,  wed  her  before  she 
knows  anything  about  her  good  fortune  !  Charley,  I 
congratulate  you  !  1  say  that  is  the  biggest  thing  in 
America  !  Go  !  Do  as  I  tell  you  ;  but  be  sure  you  take 
plenty  of  perfumery.  Few  women  can  reason,  but  all 
women  can  smell.  Take  plenty  of  perfumery." 

As  he  spoke  Mrs.  Devine  entered.  She  cast  a  be 
wildered  sort  of  glance  around,  her  eyes  resting  on  her 
embarrassed  son  as  he  said  : 

"  Oh,  mother  ;  I  am  so  sad,  yet  so  glad  you  have  come 
before  I  start  for  the  Sierras." 

"  The  Sierras  !  Charley,"  she  gasped.  "  I  thought,  I 
thought—' ' 

At  this  moment,  Gully,  who  had  been  watching  for 
an  opportunity,  adroitly  exchanged  the  contents  of  the 
envelope  by  substituting  some  worthless  papers  which 
were  in  his  own  pocket. 

"  Yes,  mother  I — I  did  not  want  to  tell  you  myself, 
but  now  I  must.  I  go  to  California  to-night." 

"  No,  no  !  Not  there  !  Not  to  that  place,  of  all 
places  in  the  world.  Not  there — not  there,  I  implore 


48  '49,    THE    GOLD-SEEKER   OF   THE   SIERRAS. 

you."     And   the  woman  clung  to   her  boy   as  if   she 
would  hold  him  back  from  some  dreadful  abyss. 

Gully  sealed  and  handed  Charley  the  package.  In  so 
natural  and  matter-of-fact  a  way  was  this  done  that  even 
the  shrewd  old  lawyer  suspected  nothing  wrong.  Gully 
was  an  expert  in  low  villainy. 

"  Mother,  I  must  go,"  said  the  lad.  "There  is  no 
avoiding  it.  I  must  go  to-night — now  !  Why  should 
you  have  such  a  horror  of  California  ?" 

"  My  son,  hear  me,"  cried  the  anxious  mother,  as  she 
drew  her  boy  to  her  side.  "  Your  father  is  buried 
there." 

"  Mother,  I  will  find  my  father's  grave." 

"  Only  time  to  catch dat  train,  Massa  Charles,"  called 
out  the  negro. 

Then  Charley,  after  one  prolonged  embrace,  tore  him 
self  from  his  mother's  arms,  and  disappeared. 

The  gruff  old  lawyer  was  seized  with  a  cough,  and 
used  a  handkerchief  to  his  eyes,  as  the  poor  woman  bowed 
her  head,  weeping  as  if  her  heart  would  break.  The 
handsome  and  dashing  Tom  Gully,  hastily  thrusting  the 
package  of  papers  deeper  into  the  breast  of  his  broadcloth 
coat,  took  his  departure,  chuckling  Mrickedly  as  he  strode 
through  the  dark  to  the  depot.  "  Fool  !  Go  on  your 
fool's  errand  ;  but  you  will  find  the  bird  flown,  for  I 
shall  be  there  before  you,  if  my  wits  serve  me  rightly. 
You  are  not  Tom  Gully's  match  in  winning  the  heart  of 
a  girl." 


CHAPTER  VI. 

'•'JUST   ONE   LITTLE   SONG,    LOVE." 

Then  sing  the  song  we  loved,  love, 

When  all  life  seemed  one  song  ; 
For  life  is  none  too  long,  love  ; 

Ah,  love  is  none  too  long. 

And  when  above  my  grave,  love, 
Some  day  the  grass  grows  strong, 

Then  sing  the  song  we  loved,  love  ; 
Love,  just  that  one  sweet  song. 

So  when  they  bid  you  sing,  love, 

And  thrill  the  joyous  throng, 
Then  sing  the  song  we  loved,  love  ; 

Love,  just  that  one  sweet  song. 

THIS  is  the  little  melody  which  old  "  '49"  had  taught 
Carrie  to  sing  in  concert  with  himself  every  Christmas 
Eve.  This  is  the  song  that  he  and  his  far-away  wife  had 
agreed  to  sing  together  at  the  hour  of  midnight,  though 
seas  and  continents  divided  them.  And  he,  for  his  part, 
had  kept  hie  promise  for  nearly  a  quarter  of  a  century. 
He  could  not  know  how  she  had  kept  hers.  He  only 
knew  that  he  was  gray  and  old  and  broken  now,  and 
the  sad  refrain  took  on  a  deeper  meaning  each  year  as  he 
drew  nearer  to  the  grave. 

"  For  life  is  none  too  long,  love  ; 
Ah,  love  is  none  too  long." 

And  yet  he  still  dreamed  of  the  waiting  young  wife  at 
the  door  of  his  Western  cabin  home  ;  saw  more  clearly, 


50  '49,    THE   GOLD-SEEKER  OF  THE   SIERKAS. 

it  seemed,  than  ever  before,  the  little  boy-baby  crowing 
and  tossing  its  arms  in  the  cradle  ;  still  fondly  dreamed 
from  day  to  day,  from  year  to  year,  that  he  would  strike 
gold  yet,  and  return  and  take  them  to  his  heart. 

So  the  old  man  struggled  on,  hoping  he  would  strike 
it  yet  in  that  damp,  dripping  old  tunnel.  He  could  not 
work  so  hard  now  ;  and  more  than  once  these  three — the 
old  man,  Carrie,  and  the  great  bony,  slobber-mouthed 
dog — were  out  of  bread.  And  when  they  had  nothing 
to  eat,  old  "  '49"  was  only  too  apt,  by  hook  or  crook,  to 
have  something  to  drink. 

It  was  this  wretched  poverty,  as  we  have  seen,  which 
drove  Carrie  to  singing  and  dancing  once  more  for  the 
miners.  This  took  her  to  Dosson's  saloon,  and  well- 
nigh  kept  her  there,  where  she  had  to  put  up  with  all 
the  insults  of  Old  Mississip  and  endure  the  sneers  and 
insolence  of  the  reputed  heiress,  her  so-called  daughter. 

It  was  about  this  time  that  Charles  Devine  first  came 
to  this  camp.  He  had  not  come  directly  to  Sierra,  as 
the  old  lawyer  had  desired.  The  grief  of  his  mother  at 
their  separation  made  such  a  profound  impression  on  him 
that  he  had  resolved  first  to  find  his  father's  grave,  if 
possible  ;  or  at  least  some  trace  of  his  life  or  death  in  the 
mines  of  California. 

By  persistent  search  he  found  that  he  had  set  out  for 
this  same  mining  camp  many  and  many  years  ago, 
had  entered  it,  and,  so  far  as  he  could  learn,  had  never 
left  it. 

On  the  brow  of  the  hill  looking  down  from  the  dusty 
stage  road  through  the  dense  pines  he  met  two  worn  and 
bearded  miners  in  shirts  and  boots.  Shirts  and  boots 
and  beards  seemed  to  be  about  all  that  was  visible  of 
them,  while  they  had  their  blanket,  picks,  pans,  and 
kettles  on  their  backs. 


"  JUST    ONE    LITTLE    SONG,    LOVE."  51 

He  stopped  these  prospectors  long  enough  to  inquire 
if  they  knew  a  Mr.  Devine  in  that  camp.  And  while 
they  stood  staring  at  him  from  behind  their  beards,  he 
proceeded  to  tell  how,  many  years  before,  Devine  had 
come  into  that  camp — a  tall,  handsome  gentleman — and 
never  was  heard  of  afterward. 

The  two  men  exchanged  glances.  Then  the  elder  of 
the  two  took  him  by  the  sleeve,  led  him  to  the  edge  of 
the  road,  and  bending -a  little  to  look  under  the  hanging 
boughs,  pointed  with  his  brown  and  hairy  right  hand 
away  down  toward  the  mouth  of  the  canon  to  two  little 
white  spots  by  the  side  of  a  great  dead  oak  on  a  little 
rocky  ridge,  and  said  : 

' '  Stranger,  thar's  two  strangers1  graves. ' ' 

Seeing  how  this  had  moved  the  young  man,  the 
younger  of  the  two  thought  to  say  something  kindly  ; 
and  as  they  hoisted  their  packs  a  little  higher  on  their 
backs  and  set  their  faces  up  the  hill,  he  said  back  over 
his  shoulder,  as  they  climbed  up  the  steep  road  : 

"  Yes,  them  two  came  to  this  camp  and  never  left  it  ; 
two  tall,  handsome  fellows,  years  and  years  ago." 

"  What's  their  names  ?" 

"Nobody  never  knowed,  stranger.  But  everybody 
was  powerful  sorry  for  'em  ;  they  died  under  that  dead 
tree  ;  and  one  was  a-holdin'  of  the  other  one's  head, 
as  if  to  sort  o'  help  him,  like." 

That  night,  some  drunken  miners  passing  up  the  trail 
below  the  two  graves  were  certain  they  saw  a  strange 
figure  moving  about  on  the  rocky  ridge  ;  and  so  they 
stepped  high  and  hurriedly  on  their  way. 

"  '49,"  looking  out  of  that  low  little  window,  also 
beheld  something  that  night.  But  he  did  not  mention 
the  circumstance  to  any  one.  In  fact,  he  saw  the  object 
but  dimly,  for  his  eyes  were  old  and  weak  now.  And 


52  '49,    THE   GOLD-SEEKEH   OF   THE   SIERRAS. 

then  the  trees,  at  last  after  so  many  years,  were  grow 
ing  up  between  his  window  and  these  two  ghastly  white 
graves  that  had  so  haunted  him  all  these  years.  lie  was 
glad  of  this.  Oh,  he  was  so  glad  ! 

He  had  always  felt  that,  so  long  as  two  bald  white 
graves  kept  watch  there  at  the  mouth  of  the  canon,  he 
could  never  pass  out  of  it  to  the  civilized  world  beyond. 
These  graves  were  as  the  tops  of  two  mighty  pillars  of  a 
great  gate  that  shut  him  up  in  prison  forever. 

But  now  nature  had  come  to  help  and  comfort  him. 
The  oak  was  dead  ;  but  a  growth  of  pine,  as  is  always 
the  case  on  the  California  foothills,  was  taking  the  place 
of  the  departed  oak.  They  would  soon  hide  these  two 
glaring  graves  utterly  now  at  last. 

This  man,  with  his  morbid  memories,  felt  that  he 
could  breathe  more  freely,  stand  up  straighter,  step  more 
firmly  when  these  two  graves  that  had  lain  there,  in 
moon  or  sun,  storm  or  shine,  for  fully  twenty  years, 
should  be  hidden  forever  in  the  green  foliage  of  the 
pines. 

The  next  day  young  Devine,  after  a  night  of  watch 
ing  and  prayer  on  the  rocky  ridge  by  the  two  nameless 
graves,  resolved  that  with  the  approach  of  evening  he 
would  enter  the  saloon  where  Belle  was  to  be  found,  and 
forthwith  make  his  mission  known. 

lie  dressed  himself  with  care  ;  for,  in  addition  to  being 
always  elegant  in  his  apparel,  he  felt  somehow  that  he 
ought  to  approach  this  young  girl  with  every  considera 
tion  and  token  of  respect. 

It  is  just  possible,  too,  that  there  might  have  been  at 
that  time  a  vague  idea  that  it  would  be  best  for  him  to 
win  this  wealthy  girl's  heart,  lift  her  to  his  position  in 
life,  and  at  the  same  time  secure  his  own  fortune,  as 
Gully  had  advised.  Who  can  guess  what  were  his 


"JUST   ONE   LITTLE   SONG,    LOVE."  53 

thoughts,  with  the  picture  of  his  dead  father  running 
counter-current  through  his  brain,  as  he  approached  the 
saloon  on  that  memorable  night  ? 

A  motley  crowd  it  was  that  he  found  there,  loud  and 
coarse  and  vulgar  ;  not  at  all  like  the  men  of  the  olden 
days  of  gold.  He  wore  a  tall  silk  hat — a  dangerous 
thing  for  a  stranger  to  do  on  entering  a  mining  camp. 
Men  stared  at  him.  They  were  not  absolutely  uncivil, 
but  they  certainly  held  him  in  great  contempt  from  the 
moment  they  set  eyes  on  his  hat.  He  wished  to  speak 
to  some  one,  and  seem  sociable.  Still  thinking  of  his 
father  with  tenderness,  and  seeing  old  Colonel  Billy,  with 
his  battered  hat  on  his  left  eye,  he  accosted  him,  and 
asked  if  he  ever  heard  of  a  Mr.  Devine  who  came  to 
California  in  '49. 

"  A  Mr.  Devine  ?  A  Mr.  Devine  ?  "Was  he  a  gos 
pel  sharp  ?  A  hymn-howler  ?  ~No  offence,  I  hope. 
Thought  he  might  a'  been,  you  know,  from  the  name," 
said  Colonel  Billy. 

"  Ko,  no  offence,"  said  the  young  man,  relaxing  the 
fist  that  half  doubled  as  the  colonel  spoke. 

"  Did  you  ever  know  a  man  by  the  name  of  Devine  ?" 
he  asked  of  a  tall,  bony  old  man  who  stood  on  the  edge 
of  the  crowd,  and  who  swayed  like  a  leafless  pine  that 
had  died  and  refused  to  fall. 

The  old  dead  pine  stopped  swaying  a  moment,  and 
answered:  "Devine?  Devine?  Any  relation  to — ?" 
and  the  bewildered  old  man  lifted  his  head  heavenward  in 
dazed  and  helpless  inquiry.  Then  shaking  his  head  he 
was  blown  back  into  the  crowd,  while  a  sympathetic  knot 
of  old  miners  looked  at  the  young  man  and  shook  their 
grizzly  heads,  but  did  not  answer. 

"  Looking  for  a  needle  in  a  haystack,  young  man.  If 
that  was  his  name,  it's  just  the  best  of  a  reason  that  it 


54  '49,    THE    GOLD-SEEKER    OF   THE    SIERRAS. 

ain't  his  name  now.  Yon  see  we  baptize  'em  over  and 
give  'em  new  names,  titles,  and  sich,  when  they  come  to 
Californy,"  observed  a  man  with  a  mashed  nose  and  a 
short  leg. 

There  was  a  rustle  of  silk  at  that  moment,  while  a 
murmur  of  admiration  ran  through  the  crowd.  Old 
Mississip,  with  her  daughter,  the  dark,  low-browed 
Creole  girl,  entered  and  took  their  places  at  the  faro- 
table. 

This  girl  was  supposed  to  belong  to  one  of  the  oldest 
and  most  aristocratic  families  of  the  South-west.  It  was 
a  moment  of  intense  interest  to  Devine. 

"  And  why  is  this  young  lady  called  Belle  Sippy  ?" 
he  asked  of  the  short  man,  with  the  mashed  nose. 

"  Don't  know,  'cept  it's  'cause  her  mother's  name  is 
Mississip." 

The  man  limped  away  from  this  stranger,  who  seemed 
to  be  a  walking  interrogation  point,  and  over  his 
shoulder  referred  him  to  Colonel  Billy  ;  and  Colonel 
Billy,  holding  on  to  the  bar  lest  the  floor  might  move 
from  under  his  feet  if  he  attempted  to  stand  still,  re 
ferred  him  to  old  '"49." 

"  He's  been  here  since  these  hills  was  a  hole  in  the 
ground  ;  and  what  he  don't  know  about  anybody  ain't 
worth  knowin',  stranger.  Ask  him  when  he  comes  ; 
he'll  be  here  in  this  'ere  saloon  with  Carrots,  by  and 
by,' '  continued  Colonel  Billy.  Then  spitting  cotton  and 
making  many  signs  of  being  very  dry,  lie  went  on  : 
"  But  it's  my  opinion,  as  a  lawyer — my  professional 
opinion — that  she's  no  more  her  daughter  than  I  am." 
And  he  nodded  to  Belle.  The  old  colonel  blinked  and 
blinked  as  he  spoke,  and  at  the  end  of  his  speech  looked 
at  the  young  man  as  if  seeking  to  find  a  name  for  him. 
He  looked  tirst  at  his  feet,  then  up  and  up  till  lie  saw 


''JUST   ONE    LITTLE   SOXG,    LOVE."  55 

his  hat.     Then  with  a  laugh  he  blurted  out,  "  No  more 
her  daughter  than  I  am,  Mr.  Beaver." 

"  By  Gol  !''  chimed  in  a  capper,  "  a  dandy  come  to 
town  !"  as  he  looked  up  from  the  game,  over  his 
shoulder,  at  the  stranger. 

"  Dandy  Beaver  !  Gentlemen,  Mr.  Dandy  Beaver  !" 
said  the  colonel,  setting  his  white  hat  on  his  head. 

"  Dandy  Beaver  !  Down  your  bets,  Dandy  Beaver," 
shouted  the  dealer,  as  he  gayly  tossed  his  cards  ;  and  the 
man,  looking  straight  at  the  newcomer,  leaned  forward 
and  playfully  tapped  the  cheek  of  the  girl. 

"  And  in  such  a  place  as  this,  and  with  such  people  ! 
What  hideous  familiarity  ?"  Devine  fairly  caught  his 
breath  and  fell  back  amazed  at  the  audacity  of  Dosson, 
as  he  touched  the  girl's  cheek. 

"All  down!  The  game's  made!  Roll!"  Again 
the  coin  clinked,  the  cards  flew  in  the  air,  and  the  pretty 
Spanish  women  and  gayly-dressed  Mexicans  smoked  their 
cigarettes  and  played  with  desperate  intent.  Such  scenes 
as  this  are  common  enough  in  mining  towns  to  this  day. 

"  But  where's  Carrie  ?"  exclaimed  old  Colonel  Billy. 
"  I  didn't  come  here  to  gamble  and  drink.  1  came 
here  to  see  Carrie  and  hear  her  sing.  Now,  where  is 
Carrie  ?  That's  what  1  want  to  know." 

"  And  who  is  this  Carrie  ?"  queried  Devine,  who  was 
anxious  to  introduce  himself  to  the  notice  of  Belle. 

"  Oh,  she's  a  wretched,  ragged  thing,  that  hain't  got 
a  cent,"  was  Belle's  reply,  accompanied  by  a  contempt 
uous  toss  of  the  head. 

"Got  no  father,  got  no  mother,  got  nothin',"  said 
Mississip,  savagely. 

The  game  had  stopped.  There  was  a  storm  outside. 
Perhaps  these  people  wrere  wondering  where  that  child 
was.  It  was  an  awkward  pause  after  the  woman  spoke 


56  '49,    THE   GOLD-SEEKER   OF   THE   SIERRAS. 

so  bitterly.  The  people  began  to  roll  cigarettes  and  fall 
back  and  gather  in  groups  about  the  saloon. 

"  That's  a  'Frisco  chap,"  observed  Dosson. 

"Take  a  drink,  mister?"  said  the  woman,  pointing 
to  the  bar. 

"  No,  thank  you,  1  don't  drink." 

"  Don't  drink  !  Well  (hie)  he's  not  from  'Frisco," 
hiccoughed  Colonel  Billy. 

"  You  are  the  proprietor  of  the — of  the  City  Hotel  ?" 
said  Devine,  civilly,  as  he  approached  nearer,  endeav 
oring  to  be  courteous. 

"  I  am  the  proprietor  of  the  City  Tavern,  the  only 
hotel ;  and  I  lets  the  rooms,  bet  your  sweet  life,' '  re 
plied  the  virago. 

"  Rooms  ! — (hie) — rooms  !  Rooms  not  quite  big 
enough  for  bedrooms  (hie),  and  a  little  too  big  for 
coffins,"  said  Colonel  Billy. 

"  Can  1  spend  the  evening  in  the  hotel  ?" 

"  Certain,  certain  !  That's  what  this  'ere  hotel  was 
fitted  up  for.  You  see  in  the  Sierras  we  likes  to  be  as 
comfortable  and  as  nice  as  in  'Frisco.  But  this  parlor  is 
used  for  a  good  many  things.  Now,  this  is  the  parlor 
of  the  City  Tavern.  This  is  the  ladies'  sittin'-room." 
Here  a  Spanish  lady  bowed.  "  This  is  the  gentle 
men's  sitting-room."  Here  Colonel  Billy  bowed  pro 
foundly,  adding,  "It's  the  eatin'  house,  and  it's  the  dead- 
house." 

"Dead-house?" 

"  Ay,  dead-house." 

"  Right  there  ;  I've  seed  seven  of  us  laid  out  to  stiffen 
on  that  'ere  table,"  said  Colonel  Billy,  looking  grim  and 
ghastly  at  the  recollection. 

"  Oh,  yes  ;  but  what's  the  use  of  a  killin'  of  men  in 
the  house.  It  always  interferes  with  the  game.  If  you 


"JUST   OXE    LITTLE    SONG,    LOVE."  57 

wants  to  kill  'em,  kill  'em  outside.  Down  your  bets  ! 
All  down  !  Try  your  luck,  mister  ?  There's  the  ace  of 
diamonds,  as  pretty  a  card  as  ever  held  a  twenty-dollar 
piece. ' ' 


CHAPTER  VII. 

"I'M     A     TOTAL     WRECK." 

We  are  wreck  and  stray,  we  are  cast  away, 

Poor,  battered  old  hulks  and  spars, 
But  we  hope  and  pray,  on  the  Judgment  Day, 

We  will  strike  it,  up  there  in  the  stars. 
Though  battered  and  old,  oiir  hearts  are  bold, 
Yet  oft  do  we  repine 
For  the  days  of  old, 
For  the  days  of  gold — 
For  the  days  of  Forty-nine. 

"  ALL  down  !  Down  your  bets  !  The  game  is  made  ! 
Roll  !"  roared  Mississip,  as  she  sat  at  the  faro-table 
flourishing  a  card  over  her  head. 

"  Mississip,  where  is  Carrots  ?  I  didn't  come  here  to 
gamble  and  get  drunk.  1  came  to  see  her  and  (hie)  hear 
her  sing,"  said  Colonel  Billy,  as  he  spread  both  his  broad 
hands  on  the  table  and  leaned  on  them  heavily,  empha 
sizing  his  former  question. 

"Where's  Carrots?  Out  with  old  '  '49,'  when  ehe 
ought  to  be  here  at  work.  Roll  !"  Colonel  Billy 
tottered  away,  muttering  over  his  shoulder  aside  to  the 
miners,  "  i  tell  you,  boys,  we  ought  to  do  somethin' 
for  that  little  gal,  even  if  she  is  a  saucy  imp,  and  all 
that.  Old  '  '4:9 '  can't  keep  her  any  more.  You  all 
think  he's  rich,  eh  ?  Think  he's  got  a  mountain  of  gold 
(hie),  eh  ?  Well,  boys,  he's  got  somethin'  dearer  than 
gold  away  back  yonder  in  the  States — a  wife  and  a  baby. 
Why,  if  he  had  money  he  wouldn't  stay  here  a  minute. 


"I'M    A    TOTAL   WRECK."  59 

No,  lie's  too  poor  to  even  feed  Carrots.  He's  all  busted 
up,  and  about  starvin'  himself.  That  old  tunnel. 
Humph  !  She  has  to  go  to  sing  and  dance  to  get  a  bit 
of  bread.  Total  wreck,  total  wreck."  And  the  red 
nose  of  Colonel  Billy,  having  run  its  course  about  the 
room  like  a  comet  in  the  heavens,  came  back  to  the  bar, 
whence  it  started,  and  entreated  the  barkeeper  for  a 
drink. 

Meantime,  through  a  door  by  the  bar,  sauntered  in  the 
best-dressed  man  in  the  Sierras.  He  was  fragrant  as  an 
apothecary's  shop.  His  broad  California!!  hat  rested  a 
little  on  one  side  ;  a  pistol  showed  on  his  hip  and  a 
bowie-knife  in  his  belt. 

Charles  Devine  started  as  at  an  apparition.  It  was 
Gully — yes,  Tom  Gully.  Tom  approached  the  girl 
familiarly,  and  sat  down  at  the  card-table  as  if  he  owned 
the  place.  The  red  comet  completed  another  circle  of 
the  den,  and  came  back  to  the  card-table. 

"  Oh,  go  'way  and  don't  bother  the  game." 

"  Put  him  out,  Lucky  Tom,  put  him  out  !"  cried 
Mississip. 

"  You  had  better  order  your  coffin  (hie)  before  you 
try  it.  I'm  one  of  the  old  'uns,  I  am.  Don't  care  if 
you  do  carry  a  bowie.  I  came  to  this  'ere  camp  too  early 
in  the  mornin'.  Why,  yon  only  came  here  last  month, 
and  you  think  you  own  the  town.  Put  me  out  !  I 
should  radiate.  Used  them  things  for  toothpicks  in  '49 
and  spring  of  '50,"  hiccoughed  the  colonel,  as  Gully  laid 
a  hand  on  his  bowie-knife. 

"  Well,  Colonel  Billy,  if  he  wants  to  put  you  out,  he 
will,"  piped  in  Belle,  from  the  other  side  of  the  table. 

"  Your  humble  servant,  miss,  but  he  don't  want  to  ; 
he  don't  want  to  (hie)  put  me  out,"  bowed  the  colonel, 
politely. 


GO  '49,    THE    GOLD-SEEKER   OF   THE   SIEKRAS. 

"No,  no,  he  don't  want  to  ;  do  you,  dear?"  leered 
the  girl. 

"  Not  if  he  behaves  himself,  my  darling,"  answered 
Gully,  with  considerable  familiarity. 

"  Well,  all  1  want  to  know  is,  JUississip,  where' s  Car 
rots,  and  why  don't  you  pay  her  for  singin'  and  dancin' 
here  well  enough  for  her  to  get  clothes  like  this  one's  ? 
Carrots  does  all  the  work  and  Belle  wears  all  the 
clothes." 

"  Because  Belle  is  a  lady  and  Carrots  is  nothing  but  a 
little  saucy  Injin,  and  don't  deserve  good  clothes.  And 
now  d'ye  mind  that  ?  The  Injin!"  cried  Mississip. 

"Injin,  Injin  !  "Well,  she's  the  whitest  Injin  I  ever 
seed.  A  red-headed  Injin.  Say  (hie),  Belle's  blacker 
than  forty  Carrots." 

"  Now  you — "  and  with  a  fearful  oath  Gully  was  on 
his  feet,  his  hand  on  his  bowie. 

"  Why  don't  you  pull  it  ?  1  want  to  see  it  ;  hain't 
seed  a  bowie  since  spring  of  '50.  Bah,  you  coward  !" 

As  the  two  stood  glaring  at  each  other,  a  voice  was 
heard  above  the  storm  outside — a  feeble,  piping  voice,  as 
if  some  one  was  trying  to  sing  and  be  merry  under  diffi 
culties. 

"  That's  Carrots  !  That's  our  Carrots,  boys  !"  cried 
the  colonel. 

"  That  hateful  Carrots.  The  men  all  turn  from  me 
to  hear  her  sing.  The  hateful  singecat.  I  despise 
her  !"  muttered  Belle. 

"  That's  Carrots  !  That's  Carrots  ;  and  old  *  '49,' 
my  chum,  ain't  far  off,"  chuckled  Colonel  Billy,  as  he 
turned  from  Gully  with  contempt  and  indifference. 

"  I  don't  know  what  '  '49  '  sees  in  her,"  says  Belle 
spitefully  to  the  comet,  as  in  its  orbit  it  passed  by  where 
she  sat. 


"I'M   A   TOTAL   WRECK."  61 

"  Don't  see  what  '  '49  '  sees  in  licr  f  Why,  he  sees 
in  her  soul  (hie),  heart,  humanity.  She's  the  sunshine 
of  his  life.  She's  the  champagne  and  cocktails  of  this 
'ere  camp,  too." 

And  here  entered  Carrots,  singing  snatches  of  song,  a 
1)0 w  and  arrows  in  her  hand,  her  dress  all  torn,  her  hat 
hanging  by  its  strings  over  her  shoulders,  and  her  hair 
unkempt.  Flourishing  her  bow  and  arrows,  she  cried 
out  to  Colonel  Billy  : 

"  Knocked  a  chipmunk  clean  out  of  a  pinetop,  Colonel 
Billy.  Yes,  I  did  !  Old  '  '49  '  was  with  me  up  yonder. 
Yes,  and  he's  come  home  by  his  tunnel  to  give  my 
flowers  to  old  sick  Jack.  Be  here  in  a  minute." 

Mississip  strode  across  the  room  toward  the  girl,  and 
the  miners  gave  way  before  her. 

11  She's  broken  up  the  game.  Here  !"  And  she 
seized  Carrots  by  the  hair. 

"  Oh,  oh  !  Now,  you  jest  let  up  !  Let  down  !  Let 
go  !"  cried  the  girl. 

"  Give  me  that,  and  tell  me  where  you've  been  1" 
roared  the  virago. 

"  Oh,  please,  Mississip  !  Please  let  go  my  bow  and 
I'll  never,  never,  never —  '  and  here  the  girl  slipped 
from  the  clutches  of  the  old  monster,  with  her  bow  and 
arrows  still  in  her  hand.  Placing  an  arrow  in  hor  bow 
quick  as  an  Indian  might,  she  drew  it  on  Mississip  : 
"  You  old  hippopotamus  !  Notion  to  knock  you  like  I 
did  the  chipmunk." 

"  You  imp  !  You  Injin  !"  cried  Gully,  from  behind, 
us  he  cuffed  her  and  took  the  bow  and  arrows,  and  angrily 
and  hastily  placed  them  out  of  her  reach  behind  the  bar. 

"  Now,  you  ever  dare  touch  that  bow  and  arrows 
again—  "  began  Mississip,  but  suddenly  stopped,  and 
resumed  her  seat.  Old  "  '49"  had  entered  the  room. 


62  '49,    THE    GOLD-SEEKER   OF   THE   SIERRAS. 

"  "Well,  Colonel  Billy,  old  pard,  how  are  you  ?" 

"  Still  spitting  cotton,"  the  Colonel  replied.  "Dry, 
very  dry.  Total  wreck,  and  dry." 

"  Dry  !  Ila,  ha  !  Well,  I  ain't.  That  old  tunnel 
goes  drip,  drip,  drip.  I'm  not  dry.  I  hain't  been  dry 
for  nigh  onto  twenty  years,  Colonel  Billy." 

"  Well,  I've  been  dry  for  nigh  onto  a  thousand  years, 
seems  to  me." 

"  Billy,  you  just  wait.  Just  wait  till  1  strike  it  in 
that  tunnel,  and  we'll  go  to  New  York  and  buy — buy 
the  Astor  House.  Yes,  we  will,  bar  and  all. "  Thus  the 
generous  sentiments  of  the  heart  led  many  of  the  noblest 
of  the  pioneers  on  the  way  to  their  ruin. 

"  Good,  good  !  But  you  won't  strike  it.  No,  you 
won't  never  strike  it  while  I  live.  Why,  if  I  wait  for 
you  to  strike  it  in  that  old  tunnel,  I'll  be  so  dry  (hie) — • 
well,  I'll  be  evaporated." 

"  There's  gold  in  there.  1'  ve  been  here  since  '49,  and 
I'd  ought  to  know.  I'll  strike  it  yet,  Colonel  Billy. 
And  you  won't  evaporate." 

"  Yes,  1  will  evaporate.  We  all  will.  "Won't  we, 
boys?" 

"  Well,  then,  come,  let's  have  a  drink.  Come,  boys," 
and  "  '4.9"  crossed  over  to  the  bar  with  the  boys.  "  See 
there,  boys  ;  she  did  it.  Took  its  eye  out  with  the  bow 
and  arrows  I  made  for  her.  There,  barkeep.  Have  it 
for  your  dinner  ?  Might  have  a  meaner  one.  Yes,  you 
might  have  a  worse  dinner  than  a  chipmunk,  barkeep. " 

Colonel  Billy  spit  cotton  furiously,  for  the  whiskey  was 
poured  out,  and  each  man  had  his  glass  in  his  hand.  But 
as  no  one  in  the  mines  ever  drank  till  the  man  who  treated 
lifted  his  glass,  the  old  colonel  was  suffering  horribly. 

"Why,  when  I  came  here  in  '49,  that  'ere  squirrel 
would  ha'  been  a  dinner  fit  for  a  king.  Tough  times, 


"I'M    A   TOTAL   WKECK."  63 

then,  I  tell  yon.  Them's  the  times,  too,  when  we  used 
to  have  a.  man  for  breakfast  ;  women  were  so  bad,  and 
whiskey  was  so  bad,  Colonel  Billy.  Yes,  yes  !  But 
now  that  I've  got  that  tunnel,  and  am  goin'  to  strike  it 
right  away,  I  wouldn't  eat  chipmunk — no."  He  raised 
his  glass,  and  then  dropped  it  again.  The  faces  of  the 
miners  and  Billy  expressed  the  keenest  disappointment. 

Standing  there  with  his  glass  in  hand  and  resting  on 
the  bar  in  most  provoking  irresolution,  to  the  dismay  of 
all,  he  began  again  : 

"  And  when  1  do  strike  it  and  get  back  to  my  wife 
and  little  blue-eyed  baby  in  the  cradle  on  the  banks  of 
the  Mississippi — "  Here  Carrots  clung  closer  to  him — 
"  Oh,  I'll  take  you,  my  girl.  Oh,  never  do  you  fear, 
I'll  take  you.  And  I'll  take  a  big  buckskin  bag  of  gold- 
dust,  yellow  and  rich  and  beautiful  as  your  beautiful  hair, 
my  girl.  And  we  won't  let  'em  know  we're  comin'. 
.No.  We'll  just  slip  up  to  the  cabin  there — slip  up 
through  the  corn,  and  just  slip  in  quiet  like,  while  my 
wife's  leanin'  on  the  mantel  and  lookin'  the  other  way, 
and  then  we'll  crawl  up  to  the  little  cradle  settin'  in  the 
middle  of  the  floor,  and  we'll  pour  the  gold  down  in  the 
cradle  at  that  baby's  feet  as  it  lies  there  a-crowin',  and 
my  wife  will  turn  and  see  it  all — gold,  gold,  gold  !" 

"  "49  ! '  "49  ! '  Old  pard  !  You  mustn't  think  of 
that,  you  know.  Your  head  !  You  mustn't  talk  of 
the  States.  You  know  it  makes  you  (hie)  wild  to  talk  of 
the  States." 

"  I  forgot,  1  forgot.  Forgive  me,  boys.  Here's  to 
— to — to — her." 

And,  as  he  lifted  his  glass,  he  turned,  and  for  the  first 
time  saw  young  Devine. 

"  'Frisco  chap,  eh  ?     Have  a  drink,  stranger  ?" 

"  No,  thank  you  ;  I  rarely  drink." 


G4  '49,    THE    GOLD-SEEKER    OF   THE   SIERRAS. 

"  Rarely  drinks  !  Well,  he  ain't  quite  square," 
mused  Colonel  Billy. 

Gully  suddenly  looked  up.  As  his  startled  eyes  fell 
upon  the  stranger  he  became  pale  as  death.  Then  he 
started  from  the  table. 

"  Charley  Devine  !"  he  muttered  between  his  set 
teeth.  "  By  all  that's  fiendish,  lie's  found  this  out-of- 
the-way  place,  without  his  papers,  and  it  will  not  be  like 
him  if  he  is  not  without  money,  too.  Well,  here's  for 
the  game  of  bluff.  Fortune  favors  the  brave,"  and,  by 
a  supreme  effort,  he  cried,  "  Hello,  Charley." 

"Gully!  who'd  have  thought  of  seeing  you  here," 
cried  Devine.  "  Lucky  Tom  Gully,  I  heard  them  call 
you.  Well,  I'm  the  lucky  man  this  time,  for  I'm  flat 
broke." 

"  Good  !  Flat  broke  !  He  does  not  even  suspect 
me,"  said  Gully  to  himself.  "  I'm  your  friend, 
Charley,  and  will  help  you.  But  what's  the  trouble  ?" 

"Well,  you  see,  1  was  very  mellow  that  night  I 
started  ;  I  had  gambled,  you  know,  and  when  I  got 
sober  the  next  day  I  found  that  1  had  either  lost  the 
papers  or,  in  the  hurry  of  my  leaving,  Judge  Snowe 
had  given  me  the  wrong  package.  Only  some  old 
papers  of  yours,  where  you  had  been  sued  for  a  tailor's 
bill  !  Well,  you  know  how  gruff  and  stern  Snowe  is.  I 
couldn't  go  back  ;  and,  then,  I  wanted  to  try  and  find 
something  about  my  father  ;  if  possible,  to  find  his 
grave.  And  as  I  knew  the  name  of  this  place,  1  at  last 
managed  to  get  here.  But  how  is  it  you  are  here  ?" 

"  Treat  an  old  miner  ?  Been  here  since  '49.  Spring 
of  '50.  Treat  an  old  miner  ?  Total  wreck — total 
wreck,"  observed  the  comet,  as  it  came  around  in  its 
orbit  between  the  two  men. 

"  Billy,  you're  drunk,"  and  Gully  pushed  him  aside. 


"I'il    A   TOTAL   WRECK."  65 

"  No  offence,  stranger,  no  offence.  Total  wreck,  total 
wreck." 

And  the  fiery  comet  swept  on  around  in  its  orbit  to 
"  '49." 

"  And  you  come  here  to  mine  ?"  queried  Devine,  as 
he  looked  Gully  steadily  in  the  face. 

"To  marry." 

' '  To  marry  ?  Why,  there  are  no  marriageable  ladies 
here  in  this  dreadful  place,  are  there  ?" 

"  There  is  one  marriageable  lady,  and  I  am  engaged 
to  her." 

"  I  congratulate  you." 

And  the  frank  and  unsuspecting  young  man  gave  the 
other  his  hand. 

"  It's  queer,  Carrots,"  said  "  '49"  to  the  girl,  who 
had  been  looking  curiously  at  the  stranger.  "  The  new 
one  looks  square  now.  But  that  Lucky  Tom  is  three-cor 
nered.  He  is  as  triangular  as  a  dinner-gong.  Let's  see 
what' s  goin'  on. ' ' 

The  old  man  rose  up,  and  Carrots  danced  across  before 
the  miners,  and  stopped  suddenly  in  front  of  Devine. 

"  Stranger,  hello  !     What's  your  name  ?" 

"  Well,  my  little  lady,  this  man  here,  Colonel  Billy, 
says  my  name  is  Mr.  Beaver.  Ha,  ha  !  Mr.  Charley 
Beaver,  then.  Now,  what's  your  name,  my  little  girl  ?" 

"  Carrots  !— just  Carrots.     That's  all." 

"  Good- evening,  sir,"  says  "  '49." 

"  Good-evening,  sir.  Carrots  !  Queer  name.  Eh, 
sir?" 

"Yes.  You  see  we  call  her  Carrots,  because — well, 
because  her  hair  is  like  gold,  sir.  Twenty  carats  fine, 
and  all  pure  gold.  That's  why,  sir.  And  sing  :  why, 
she  skigs  like  a  bird.  When  1  strike  it  in  my  tunnel 
I'm  goin'  to  take  her  back  with  me  to  the  States,  sir, 


CG  '49,    THE    GOLD-SEEKER   OF   THE   SIERRAS. 

to  tend  and  sing  to  my  little  baby.  Have  a  drink,  Mr. 
— Mr. — Charley  Beaver  ?" 

"  Well — thank  you.  Don't  care  if  I  do  now.  It's 
damp  out  of  doors.  Then  1  want  to  know  you  better, 
sir.  You  look  to  me  as  if  you  might  be  the  king  of 
these  Sierras.  Yes,  I  will  drink  with  you." 

"That's  right.  You  see  I'm  old  ""49.'  The  boys 
all  know  me.  I'm  goin'  to  strike  it  in  my  tunnel  next 
week,  and  go  back  to  the  States.  I'm  tired  of  this. 
Tired,  tired.  1  want  to  see  my  wife  and  baby." 

"  Why,  what  part  of  the  States  ?" 

Again  the  comet  had  made  the  circle.  It  swept  in 
between  the  two  gentlemen — a  way  it  had — as  if  it  knew 
a  great  deal  more  than  it  pretended  to.  The  colonel  laid 
a  hand  on  the  young  man's  shoulder. 

"  Stranger  !  Mr.  Charley  Beaver.  Don't,  don't  you 
never  git  him  on  that.  He's  a  little — "  And  here 
Colonel  Bill  tapped  his  head  gravely.  "  Yrou  see,  he's 
been  waitin'  so  long  and  been  hopin'  so  long,  it's  turned 
him  jest  a  little.  No.  Never  let  him  talk  about  that. 
He's  all  right  on  other  things,  but  not  that.  Never, 
never  let  him  talk  of  the  States,  stranger— never  of  a 
wife  and  a  wee  bit  of  a  baby  in  the  cradle." 

"  Well,  then,  I  won't ;"  and  he  turned  to  "  '49." 

"  Tell  me,  where  did  these  girls  come  from  ?" 

"  That's  more  than  the  oldest  of  us  here  can  tell," 
answered  "  '49."  "  You  see  these  mountains  were  full 
of  people  once.  Full,  like  a  full  tide  of  the  sea,  when 
we  first  found  gold  here.  The  tide  went  out,  and  left 
the  driftwood  and  seaweeds  and  wrecks.  These  are 
part  of  them — I  am  part  of  them." 

"  But  Carrots — where  did  she  come  from  ?" 

"  Don't  know,  1  say.  She  was  first  seen,  a  mere 
baby,  beggin'  about  among  the  miners  with  some  Injuns. 


"I'M   A   TOTAL   WRECK."  67 

They  took  the  Injuns  to  the  Reservation  ;  the  Injuns 
died,  and  I  went  down  and  got  my  little  Carrots  and 
brought  her  back  to  the  mountains,  or  she'd  have  died 
too." 

"  And  when  was  this  you  h'rst  saw  her  among  the 
Indians  ?  Spring  of  '57,  eh  ?"  chimed  in  the  comet,  as 
again  in  its  orbit  it  poked  its  fiery  nose  between  the 
men. 

"Yes,  guess  it  was,"  says  "'49."  "He's  got  a 
memory.  Was  a  great  lawyer  once." 

"  Yes  ;  and  don't  you  know,  '  '49,'  how  we  first  called 
Carrots  '  The  baby  '  ?" 

"  Yes  ;  and  do  you  remember  the  time  she  stole  some 
raw  turnips  ?" 

"  Yes  ;  and  ate  'em,  and  got  the  colic,  and  like  to 
died  ?" 

"  Yes  ;  and  Poker  Jack  got  on  his  mule  to  go  to 
Mariposa  for  the  doctor." 

"  Yes  ;  and  got  into  a  poker  game,  and  didn't  get 
back  for  four  days." 

"  Yes  ;  and  the  doctor  didn't  come,  and  so  the  baby 
got  well. " 

"Just  so.  Just  so,  ''49'  ;"  and  the  comet  crept 
on,  shaking  its  head  a  bit  at  the  memory  of  departed 
days. 

"  Thank  you.     And  the  other  one,  "49  '  ?" 

"  Well,  that  mout  be  her  child  ;  but  I  guess  she  got 
picked  up,  too,  by  old  Mississip.  But,  you  see  Belle, 
she's  stuck  up.  Guess  she's  got  blood  in  her.  I  don't 
like  her  at  all  like  1  do  my  little  Carrots." 

Devine  was  thoughtful  for  a  moment,  and  then  said  to 
himself  : 

"  This  can't  be  the  girl.  Water  finds  its  level.  She 
has  sunk  to  the  kitchen.  The  other  one  is  the  lady.  1 


G8  '49,    THE    GOLD-SEEKER   OF   THE   SIERRAS. 


talk  to  Gully.  He  seems  to  be  most  intimate  with 
her.  What  does  it  mean  ?" 

"  What,  ain't  goin'  to  bed,  are  you  ?"  said  "  '49,"  as 
the  young  man  turned  away. 

"  Oh,  yes,  *  '49.'  Let  him  go.  You'll  talk  too 
much,  and  have  one  of  your  spells  again,"  cried  little 
Carrots,  as  she  clung  to  the  hand  of  her  only  friend  on 
earth.  "  Come,  let's  go  up  to  the  cabin."  Then  she 
darted  back  behind  the  bar  and  stole  her  bow  and 
arrows. 

"  Come  here,  Carrots,  and  give  us  a  song,  and  then 
we'll  all  go,"  said  an  old  miner. 

"  Yes,  a  song,"  shouted  the  miners  in  chorus. 

"  1  ain't  got  no  song,"  said  Carrie,  pouting. 

"  Yes,  just  one  song  for  the  boys,  Carrots,  and  we'll 
go  up  to  the  old  cabin." 

"Give  us  'The  Days  of  Forty-nine,'"  they  all 
shouted. 

"  Shall  I,  '  '49  '  ?     Will  you,  boys,  all  join  in  ?" 

'  '  Yes,  yes.  '  ' 

"  I  will  assist,"  said  the  comet,  clearing  its  throat. 

"  All  right.  Join  in  the  chorus  all  of  you."  And, 
smoothing  down  her  storm  of  hair,  she  sang  in  a  clear, 
sweet  voice,  while  every  miner  roared  in  chorus  : 

"  Wo  have  worked  out  our  claims,  we  have  spent  our  gold, 

Our  barks  are  astrand  on  the  bars  ; 
We  are  battered  and  old,  yet  at  night  we  behold 

Outcroppings  of  gold  in  the  stars. 
And  though  few  and  old,  our  hearts  are  bold  ; 
Yet  oft  do  we  repine 
For  the  days  of  old, 
For  the  days  of  gold  — 
For  the  days  of  Forty-nine. 
Chorus.  —  And  though  few  and  old,  our  hearts  are  bold,  etc. 


"I'M    A   TOTAL   WRECK."  69 

"  Where  the  rabbits  play,  where  the  quail  all  day 

Pipes  on,  on  the  chapparal  hill, 
A  few  more  days,  and  the  last  of  us  lays 

His  pick  aside,  and  is  still. 
Though  battered  and  old,  our  hearts  are  bold  ; 
Yet  oft  do  we  repine 
For  the  days  of  old, 
For  the  days  of  gold — • 
For  the  days  of  Forty-nine. 
Chorus. — Though  battered  and  old,  our  hearts  are  bold,"  etc. 

"  Bravo  !"  shouted  the  miners,  while  some  groped  in 
their  empty  pockets,  and  shook  their  heads  mournfully. 

"  Come,  Carrots,  we  must  get  back  to  the  cabin,"  said 
"  '49,"  starting  to  his  feet. 

"  And  may  I  not  come  to  the  cabin,  too,  some  day, 
sir  ?"  asked  Devine. 

"  You  will  be  as  welcome  as  the  warm  winds  of  these 
Sierras,  sir." 

"But  we've  got  a  bulldog  tied  to  the  door,"  said 
Carrots.  "  Got  it  for  him,"  pointing  to  Gully. 

"  I  will  come,  dog  or  no  dog,"  laughed  Devine. 

"We  drink  water  out  of  the  same  spring  with  the 
grizzly  bear,"  said  "  '49." 

"  Drinks  water  !  Bah  !  Like  a  hoss  !"  chipped  in 
the  comet. 

"  I've  got  a  great  tunnel  up  there.  I've  bored  half  a 
mile  into  that  mountain,  sir." 

"  I  will  come."  Then  a  sudden  impulse  seized  upon 
J)evine.  "  I — 1—  May  I  not  come  to-riight  ?  I  am  a 
stranger,  and  poor,  and— 

"  Poor,  and  a  stranger  ?"  and  "  '49  "  grasped  his  hand. 
"  You  are  my  guest.  And  when  you  are  ready  we'll  go. " 

"  I'm  so  glad,"  said  Carrots,  aside,  and  she  began  to 
brush  and  fix  herself  up.  "  I  like  the  looks  of  him.  1 
wonder  if  he  likes  the  looks  of  me  ?" 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

IN   THE   DARK. 

The  gold  that  with  the  sunlight  lies 

In  bursting  heaps  at  dawn, 
The  silver  spilling  from  the  skies 

At  night  to  walk  upon  ; 
The  diamonds  gleaming  with  the  dew 
He  never  saw,  he  never  knew. 

A  STRANGER  and  friendless,  young  Devine  was  only 
too  glad  to  accept  the  hospitality  of  old  "  '49."  The 
three,  dripping  with  the  storm,  cold  and  hungry,  crept 
together  up  the  canon,  and  into  the  miserable  old  cabin. 
All  were  silent.  The  young  man  had  not  a  dollar  in  his 
pocket,  and  the  frugal  breakfast  told  him  but  too  plainly 
how  poor  was  his  new-found  friend.  But  "  '49,"  as 
usual,  was  rich  in  hope,  and  soon  his  glowing  accounts 
of  the  possibilities  of  the  old  tunnel  tired  the  youth  ; 
and  before  noon  he  led  his  new  partner  deep  into  the 
mountain,  and  there,  by  the  dim  light  of  the  dripping 
candle,  instructed  him  in  the  mysteries  of  gnome-land. 

And  it  was  high  time,  too,  that  he  had  some  one  to  take 
the  pick  from  his  now  feeble  and  failing  hand. 

How  the  pick  clanged  and  rung  now  against  the  hard 
gray  granite  and  quartz  !  There  is  no  intoxication  like 
that  of  the  miner's,  who  is  made  to  feel  that  the  very 
next  blow  may  make  him  a  millionaire.  This  old  man 
was  an  enthusiast,  on  this  one  subject  at  least,  and  he 
imparted  his  enthusiasm  to  his  new  partner. 

And  yet,  the  young  man  was  not  acting  without  great 


IX   THE    DARK.  71 

deliberation.  lie  soon  found  out  who  the  "  marriage 
able  young  lady"  was  to  whom  Gully  was  engaged,  and 
decided  that  his  post  of  duty  was  right  there  in  the 
camp,  as  close  to  the  side  of  the  heiress  as  might  be. 
He  had  at  once  written  to  the  old  lawyer  in  St.  Louis  ; 
and  also  to  his  mother,  telling  her  truly  what  there  was 
to  tell,  tenderly  speaking  of  the  two  white  graves  on  the 
rocky  ridge  which  he  so  often  gazed  upon. 

He  was  confident  that  the  lawyer,  Snowe,  and,  per 
haps,  his  mother,  would  come  to  him  at  once.  Yet  the 
place  was  remote  from  railroads,  and  the  mails  were  few 
and  far  between,  so  he  must  patiently  wait.  In  the 
mean  time,  penniless  as  he  was,  what  better  could  he 
possibly  do  than  work  while  he  waited  ? 

Weeks,  months,  stole  by.  The  old  man  was  able 
merely  to  hobble  about  now,  and  rarely  ventured  into 
the  damp,  dripping,  and  dreadful  tunnel.  The  youth, 
too,  was  breaking  under  his  toil  and  the  scant  living. 
His  clothes  were  in  tatters.  The  sharp  stones  had  cut 
his  boots  to  pieces,  and  he  was  literally  barefoot.  And 
there  was  no  sign  of  gold.  Every  evening  he  wrould  take 
down  to  the  old  cabin  specimens  of  the  last  rock  he  had 
wrenched  from  the  flinty  front  of  the  wall.  These  old 
"  '49  "  would  clutch  in  his  trembling  hands  and  turn 
over,  and  examine  with  his  glass.  Then  he  would  lay 
them  down  with  a  sigh,  shake  his  head,  and,  lighting  his 
pipe,  would  sit  there  by  Carrie  and  gaze  into  the  fire  in 
silence. 

Young  Devine  was  becoming  fearfully  discouraged. 
Perhaps  the  old  man  was,  too,  but  no  sign  was  permitted 
to  escape  his  lips. 

Meanwhile  the  enmity  between  the  parties  in  the  cabin 
and  the  parties  down  at  the  saloon  was  not  permitted  to 
die  out. 


72  '49,    THE    GOLD-SEEKER    OF  THE    SIERRAS. 

Trust  a  woman  like  old  Mississip  to  keep  hatred  alive 
between  men. 

The  degradation  of  Devine  had  brought  new  indig 
nities,  so  he  resolved  to  attempt  nothing  more  till  help 
arrived  from  St.  Louis.  Ah  me  !  but  lie  was  weary  of 
waiting. 

He  was  almost  naked  ;  he  was  bent  and  broken  from 
toil  ;  he  was  hungry  ;  he  was  literally  desperate.  Yet  he 
could  see  that  Dosson  and  Emens  were  at  work  every 
day  in  the  tunnel  on  their  side  of  the  spur  ;  and  their 
energy  somehow  impelled  him  to  toil  on  while  strength 
was  left  to  him  to  lift  a  pick. 

Once  he  heard  a  dull,  heavy  thud.  He  put  his  ear  to 
the  wall  before  him,  and  he  could  hear  the  stroke  of 
their  drills  against  the  granite.  He  now  knew  that  only 
a  narrow  wall  of  a  few  feet  divided  them. 

It  was  idle,  vain  to  hope,  that  in  that  narrow  wall  could 
be  found  the  fortune  for  which  "  '49"  had  toiled  so  long 
and  patiently.  The  young  man  was  now  utterly  dis 
couraged.  Despair  was  approaching  close.  He  could 
not,  he  would  not,  attempt  another  blow. 

That  evening,  as  usual,  he  picked  up  the  nearest 
fragment  of  rock,  and  taking  his  pick  on  his  shoulder 
crept  out  of  the  tunnel,  determined  to  return  no  more. 

As  he  passed  out  of  the  mossy  and  fern-grown  mouth 
of  the  tunnel,  it  seemed  to  be  dripping  more  than  ever. 
It  had  been  a  hot  day,  and  he  surmised  that  the  water 
came  from  the  melting  snow  above,  on  the  steep  moun 
tain  height. 

Down  at  the  cabin,  with  some  flowers  in  her  hand, 
stood  little  "  Carrots."  She  had  grown  almost  to  woman 
hood,  and  looked  so  lovely  now.  She  kept  arranging 
the  flowers,  holding  her  pretty  head  to  one  side,  and  now 
and  then  looking  up  the  trail  as  she  talked  to  herself. 


IX   THE    DARK.  73 

"  Humph  !  No  dandy  Charley  now.  No  black  coat, 
no  black  pants,  no  high  hat  now.  Oh,  he's  the 
raggedest  man  in  the  mountains,  and  that's  saying  he's 
pretty  ragged,  I  tell  you.  And  I  do  believe  he's 
sometimes  hungry.  I've  gathered  him  these  flowers. 
He  likes  flowers.  We've  gathered  lots  of  flowers 
together.  I'll  put  them  on  his  table  out  here,  in  the 
door-yard,  under  the  tree,  where  he  and  '  '49  '  eat  their 
dinner,  when  they  have  any  dinner.  Poor  little  Carrots, 
that  Mississip  says  is  so  bad  !  1  wonder  if  1  am  bad  ? 
1  do  lie,  that's  so  ;  I  do  steal  a  little  ;  but  I  am  not  mean. 
There,  Charley,  is  a  kiss  for  you  on  the  sweet  flowers." 

And  so  talking  to  herself,  and  arranging  the  flowers, 
the  child  did  not  see  that  silent  and  gloomy  old  "  '49" 
had  just  returned  to  the  cabin,  and  stood  there  be 
fore  the  door.  Poor  broken,  and  desolate  old  miner  ! 
And  here  let  me  correct  a  popular  error  : 

Some  one  has  said  that  these  old  Calif ornians  kept  the 
secrets  of  their  previous  lives,  and  took  new  names  to 
conceal  their  questionable  past. 

Oh,  no  ;  not  for  that  did  these  men  close  their  lips 
to  their  fellows.  But  the  baby  at  home,  the  wife  wait 
ing  there — these  were  their  gods.  Around  these  they 
drew  the  magic  circle  of  desolate  silence.  No  man 
there,  save  in  the  hour  of  death,  when  gold  and  mes 
sages  were  to  be  given  up  to  be  taken  to  them  by  the 
trusted  partner,  talked  of  his  love  or  his  little  ones. 

This  home,  hearthstone,  far  away,  was  a  shrine  that 
lay  in  the  innermost  heart  of  the  temple,  where  day  and 
night  these  strong  men  knelt  and  worshipped. 

And  so  do  not  wonder  that  "  '49,"  when  sober,  never 
talked  of  the  past  to  this  stranger. 

Once,  twice,  thrice  had  the  boy  attempted  to  lead  the 
miner  up  to  the  subject  of  the  white  graves  out  yonder 


74  '49,   THE   GOLD-SEEKER  OF  THE   SIERRAS. 

on  the  rocky  ridge  ;  but  each  time,  almost  savagely,  he 
turned  away. 

And  it  was  a  delicate  subject  for  the  boy  to  talk  upon. 
For  who  could  care  to  talk  of  a  father  who  had  died  a 
felon  ?  Somehow,  from  what  the  men  said  on  the  hill 
as  he  first  came  into  camp,  or  from  their  manner  of  say 
ing  what  they  did,  he  came  to  think  that  that  tree  had 
something  to  do  with  his  father's  death.  He  wanted  to 
know  of  a  certainty  if  the  two  unfortunate  beings  buried 
there  were  hanged  on  this  dead  oak  under  which  they 
lay.  But  "  '49"  would  answer  not  one  word  touching 
the  two  graves  that  glared  there  in  the  October  sun. 
And  so  in  his  heart  the  young  man  whose  name  now  had 
crystallized  and  shaped  itself  as  in  mockery  of  his 
present  sad  plight  into  that  of  "  Dandj'"  or  "  Dandy 
Charley,"  resolved  to  ask  Colonel  Billy,  and  find  out  all 
the  facts  possible  concerning  his  dead  father  ere  his 
mother  reached  the  rough  mining  camp. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

GOING    AWAY. 

Over  the  mountains  and  down  by  the  sea, 
A  dear  old  mother  sits  waiting  for  me, 
Waiting  for  me,  waiting  for  me — 
A  dear  old  mother  sits  waiting  for  me. 

And  waiting  long,  and  oh,  waiting  late, 
Is  a  sweet-faced  girl  at  the  garden  gate  ; 
Over  the  mountains  and. down  by  the  sea, 
A  sweet-faced  girl  is  waiting  for  me. 

ON  this  last  evening,  when  the  wretched  little  party 
rose  up  from  a  miserable  dinner,  the  old  man  went 
into  the  dark  corner  of  his  cabin,  and  sitting  by  the 
sooty  fireplace,  he  moodily  smoked  his  pipe.  Carrie 
wandered  away  alone  up  on  the  hillside,  among  the  rocks, 
still  warm  with  departed  sunshine,  and  gathered  wild 
flowers  in  the  twilight. 

But  young  Devine  took  up  a  short  pine  board,  a  pick, 
and  axe,  and  silently  set  out  down  the  trail,  as  if  he  were 
going  to  town.  He  left  the  trail  on  the  rocky  ridge  and 
turned  aside  to  the  two  graves  under  the  blighted  oak, 
and  there,  with  his  axe,  cut  and  cleared  away  the  trees 
and  bushes  that  had  been  trying  for  twenty  years  or 
more  to  hide  them  from  view. 

Then  he  took  up  his  pick  and  dug  a  hole  at  the  head 
of  and  between  the  two  graves.  In  this  hole  he  set  the 
pine  board.  Then  he  raked  in  the  dirt,  and  to  make  it 
more  firm  and  solid,  he  heaped  some  stones  about  the 
foot  of  it,  and  beat  them  down  with  the  pick.  The 


76  '49,    THE   GOLD-SEEKER   OF   THE   SIERRAS. 

steel  clanged  on  the  flinty  quartz,  making  a  strange 
sound  in  the  gathering  twilight. 

Old  Colonel  Billy,  who,  when  sober  enough,  put  in 
his  time  panning  out  in  the  edge  of  the  muddy  little 
stream  up  above,  and  not  far  from  the  mouth  of  the 
tunnel  driven  by  Dosson  and  Emens,  chanced  to  be  pass 
ing  on  his  way  home  just  then,  and  was  startled  by  the 
clanging  of  the  steel  against  the  flinty  stone.  He  looked 
up,  and  seeing  the  bushes  cleared  away,  and  "  Dandy," 
whom  he  had  named,  and  whom  he  had  early  learned  to 
like,  leaning  over  the  head  of  the  graves,  hammering  on 
the  stones  with  a  pick,  he  came  stumbling  up  over  the 
rocks,  and  stood  for  a  moment  by  his  side,  silent  with 
wonder. 

Then  seeing  a  black  pencilled  inscription  on  the  white 
pine  board,  he  stooped  on  his  hands  and  knees  and  read  : 

"  To  THE  MEMORY 

OF 
CHARLES  DEVINE  AND  FRIEND." 

The  old  colonel  drew  his  rheumatic  legs  up  under  him 
as  fast  as  he  could,  and  rose.  He  looked  curiously  at  the 
young  man  for  a  long  time.  Then  he  brushed  his  left 
palm  against  the  right,  and  his  right  against  the  left, 
then  dusted  them  again.  Then  stepping  back  and  down 
toward  the  trail  a  pace  or  two,  he  looked  up  the  stream 
and  down  the  stream,  and  then  at  the  young  man  leaning 
sadly  on  his  pick-handle,  and  said  : 

"  Friends  of  your'n  2" 

"  Yes." 

The  long  pause  that  followed  was  painful  to  both,  and 
the  old  colonel  again  attempted  to  tear  himself  away,  and 
took  another  step  or  two  backward  and  down  toward  the 


GOING   AWAY.  77 

trail.  But  the  strange  conduct  of  this  young  man,  the 
unaccountable  sadness  of  the  fine-cut  face  that  stood  out 
in  profile  against  the  clear  twilight  sky,  as  he  looked 
up  from  where  he  rested  below,  chained  him  to  the 
spot. 

And  then  it  seemed  to  this  old  man  that  this  was  a 
sort  of  innovation — a  species  of  trespass.  What  right 
had  this  stranger  to  come  here  and  dig  up  the  dead  past, 
and  set  an  inscription  over  the  dead  of  this  camp  ?  Who 
but  he  and  his  old  partner,  old  "  '49,"  knew  aught  of 
these  two  graves  or  their  occupants  now  ? 

At  last,  lifting  a  boot  with  its  ancient  wrinkles  and 
yawning  toe  to  a  rock  on  a  level  with  his  left  knee,  he 
rested  his  elbow  on  this  knee,  settled  his  bearded  chin 
into  his  upturned  palm,  and  pushing  back  his  battered 
old  white  hat,  exclaimed  : 

"  They  desarved  it  !  Yes,  they  did  !  No  disrespect 
to  your  feelin's,  Dandy.  But  when  men  go  for  to 
climbing  down  honest  men's  chimbleys,  when  they  are 
asleep,  for  to  rob  'em,  I  say  pepper  'em  !  And  I  say 
they  desarved  it  !  There  !' ' 

The  hand  was  high  up  and  the  palm  was  brought 
emphatically  down,  all  doubled  up,  after  it  had  been 
thrust  over  toward  the  dead  men  in  their  graves,  and 
again  the  man  half  turned  as  if  to  go.  Devine  was 
suddenly  all  attention,  and  cried  out  eagerly  : 

"  What  !  And  they  were  not  hung  on  this  tree  ? 
They  were  shot  ?  Did  you  say  shot  T ' 

"  Why,  yes,  shot  !  Didn't  '  '49  '  tell  ye  ?  Oh,  no  ! 
Come  to  think,  he'd  be  about  the  last  man  that  would. 
And  then  he  ain't  given  to  talkin'  of  anything  but  that 
old  tunnel,  anyhow.  But,  Dandy,  friends  or  no  friends 
of  your'n,  1  tell  you  he  wasn't  to  blame." 

"  Who— who  wasn't  to  blame  ?     Who  ?     Speak  !" 


78  '49,    THE   GOLD-SEEKER   OF  THE   SIERRAS. 

"  Dandy,  we  came  into  this  'ere  camp  'bout  the  same 
time,  '  '49  '  and  me.  He  is  as  square  as  a  Freemason's 
rule.  Why,  I  have  known  him,  young  and  old,  for 
nigh  on  to  thirty  years.  Now,  I'll  tell  ye  what  made  it 
so  bad.  When  these  two  pards — beggin'  your  pardon- 
got  peppered,  they  crawled  down  the  trail  this  way. 
Well,  right  here  one  of  'em  'pears  to  have  tuckered  out. 
And  what  does  the  other  do  but  sit  down  agin  this  'ere 
tree,  take  his  head  in  his  lap,  and  hold  him,  and  nuss  him 
and  care  for  him  till  he  was  dead,  and  even  then  didn't 
try  to  leave  him.  But  right  here,  in  the  darkness,  with 
the  awful  disgrace  and  all,  he  stuck  right  here  with  his 
dead  pard,  and  died  with  him." 

"  Oh,  my  poor  father,"  murmured  the  boy,  lifting  a 
wet  face,  and  looking  away  against  the  twilight  sky. 

"  And  that's  what  captured  the  camp.  To  see  a  pard 
stand  by  his  pard  like  that,  Dandy  ;  I  toll  you,  that 
fetched  the  boys.  And  they  were  really  sorry  they  was 
killed.  And  they  didn't  like  the  man  that  killed  'em. 
And  they  never  did,  and  they  never  will.  And  that's 
just  what's  the  matter  of  '  '49.'  Yes.  To  kill  men  like 
that,  you  know.  It's  made  him  feel  bad  all  his  life. 
But  they  desarved  it.  They  desarved  it.  They've 
ruined  my  old  pard  '  '49.'  And  they  desarved  all  he 
give  'em.  Good-night  !  Good-night  !"' 

The  young  man  bounded  down  the  rocks,  and  caught 
the  retreating  figure  by  the  shoulder. 

"  And  you  say  that''  '49  '  killed  him  f— them  ?" 

"  Sartin  !     And  they  desarved  it.     Good-night." 

The  old  colonel  shook  him  off  and  went  stumbling  on 
down  the  rocky  trail  as  fast  as  he  could  go.  He  was 
almost  afraid  of  him  now  ;  his  eyes  had  a  glare  of  mur 
der — of  madness — in  them. 

From  a  little  summit  near  town  he  looked  back.     The 


GOING   AWAY.  79 

young  man  had  moved  from  tlie  spot  where  he  left  him, 
and  was  now  kneeling  by  the  graves. 

But  soon  Devine  rose  to  his  feet,  and  turned  his  face 
toward  the  cabin  of  old  u  '49."  He  walked  rapidly, 
and  in  a  few  moments  came  face  to  face  with  Carrie,  who 
was  at  the  door. 

"  Get  ready  !"  ho  said  to  Carrie,  sharply. 

"  What  ?  What  do  you  mean  ?  Goin' — are  you 
goin'  away  ?" 

"  I  am  going.  This  is  noplace  for  me.  No  place  for 
you.  Get  ready  ;  I  am  going.  If  you  have  any  respect 
for  me— for  yourself— you  will  not  stay  here  another 
hour." 

He  stepped  into  the  cabin,  and  went  up  to  the  little 
window.  The  moon  had  risen  now,  and  the  uncovered 
graves  shone  white  and  bright  in  the  silver  light. 

The  old  man  in  the  corner  laid  some  pine-knots  on  the 
fire,  and  they  began  to  burn  fitfully.  The  quartz  rocks 
which  Devine  had  brought  in,  as  was  his  custom  at  the 
end  of  every  day,  as  specimens  from  the  tunnel,  still  lay 
on  the  table  unexamined  by  the  old  man.  Devine  had 
thought  them  softer  and  more  rotten  and  worthless  than 
usual,  as  he  laid  them  there. 

"  '  '49,'  I  am  going  away." 

The  old  man  sighed,  but  did  not  move. 

At  last  the  girl,  who  had  remained  by  the  door,  came 
up  to  where  the  young  man  now  stood  by  the  window. 
She  put  up  her  face  ;  she  put  out  a  soft,  sun-browned 
hand,  and  gently  touched  his.  It  was  but  a  little  thing 
she  did,  and  yet  it  seemed  to  her  that  she  had  done  all — 
all  that  could  be  done. 

Charley  was  still  moody.  He  did  not  stir,  but  gazed 
out  down  the  valley,  through  the  deep  canon,  as  he 
said  :  "  Get  ready  ;  we  are  going — going  now/' 


80  '40,    THE    GOLD-SEEKER   OF   THE   SIERRAS. 

The  girl  drew  back  in  the  dark  corner  where  the  old 
dog  crouched.  She  fell  on  her  knees  at  his  side  and  took 
his  big,  battered  head  in  her  thin  ragged  arms,  and  held 
him  to  her  heart.  Then  out  of  that  dark  corner  came  a 
sob  that  startled  "'49,"  who  had  risen  and  was  ap 
proaching  the  window.  Still  the  young  man  did  not  hear 
or  heed.  Finally  he  left  the  window,  and,  going  to  the 
cupboard,  he  felt  about  and  found  a  piece  of  bread, 
which  he  thrust  into  his  bosom  for  the  morrow. 

The  old  man,  thoughtful  and  silent,  at  length  hobbled 
up  to  the  window,  looked  out,  and  beheld  the  uncovered 
graves. 

His  face  grew  black  with  anger.  Perhaps  it  was  sel 
fish  anger.  Had  he  not  suffered  bitterly  ?  Yet  he  had 
in  some  sort  become  reconciled.  But  now,  when  this 
stranger,  whom  he  had  found  hungry  and  alone  in  the 
world,  had  entered  her  heart  and  taken  his  place  there, 
and  stood  coldly  commanding  her  !  Why,  she  had 
stolen  bread  for  him  !  The  old  man  was  weak  in  mind 
and  in  body  now.  He  was  scarcely  accountable  for 
what  he  might  do  or  say.  He  knit  his  wrinkled  and 
overhanging  brows,  and  turned,  up  and  down  the  floor. 
Then  he  went  to  the  fire  and  laid  a  lot  of  pine-knots 
on,  and  there  was  a  bright  blaze. 

The  young  man  once  more  turned  about.  For  the  last 
time  he  gazed  out  of  the  window  at  the  two  white  graves 
glistening  in  the  moonlight.  Then  he  commenced  to 
sing  a  soft  air  in  a  low  tone,  and  tap  the  floor  with  his 
foot.  This  seemed  to  madden  "  '49,"  and  he  muttered 
to  himself  : 

11  To  take  her  away  from  me  now  !  To  take  her  away 
like  that !  To  take  her  from  me  and  throw  me  quite  aside, 
and  stand  there  a  singin'  !  I — I  could  murder  her  !" 

His  feeble  old  hand  fell  down  at  his  side,  and  touched 


GOING    AWAY.  81 

a  heavy  pick -handle  that  stood  there  by  the  fire.  In 
stinctively  he  clutched  it.  He  half  lifted  it  in  the  air. 
He  was  looking  straight  at  the  young  man  standing 
there,  humming  an  air — a  sad,  plaintive  air — as  he 
looked  out  and  down  the  valley.  The  girl  still  crouched 
back  in  the  dark  corner  by  the  dog.  She  did  not  want 
to  go  away.  Yet  she  loved,  oh,  so  tenderly  and  so 
truly.  This  was  her  first  great  heart-struggle.  Once  or 
twice  the  old  man  thought  he  heard  her  try  to  suppress 
a  sob.  At  last  he  was  sure  he  heard  her.  Then  he 
started  forward.  At  first  he  started  to  her.  He  still 
held  the  long  hickory  pick-handle.  As  he  approached 
and  stood  at  the  back  of  the  young  man,  he  paused. 
He  did  not  hear  the  girl  any  more.  He  heard,  saw 
nothing  now.  He  only  thought  of  murder. 

Nothing  is  so  dangerous  to  a  man  as  the  sense  of  once 
having  killed  a  man.  There  is  something  singularly 
fatal  in  this.  Let  a  man  once  kill  one  man,  and  he  will 
find  an  easy  excuse  in  his  heart  to  kill  another.  Old 
Californians  know  this  well.  And  they  have  a  saying, 
to  the  effect  that  it  is  hard  on  the  man  who  is  killed,  but 
a  great  deal  harder  on  the  man  who  kills  him. 

The  old  stand  or  table  on  which  Devine  each  day,  on 
return  from  his  work,  emptied  out  his  specimens,  stood 
near  the  middle  of  the  floor,  and  before  the  little  win 
dow  by  which  he  was  now  standing.  Here  lay  the  little 
heap  of  quartz  he  had  brought  home  this  last  day.  The 
distracted  old  man  had  been  too  sad  and  too  much 
troubled  to  examine  the  specimens.  And  so  there  the 
ragged  and  jagged  rocks  lay — black  and  white,  and 
brown  and  gray — rocks  that  had  never  seen  the  light 
since  they  sprang  into  existence  at  the  fiat  of  the 
Almighty. 

"  Going  away,   now  !      Going    to    take    her  away  ! 


82  '49,    THE   GOLD-SEEKER   OF  THE   SIEilRAS. 

And  then  to  go  and  cut  down  the  bushes  that  had  hidden 
all  !  To  go  and  drag  bare  the  two  graves,  and  set  them 
glaring  in  my  face  ;  and  then  take  her  away,  and  leave 
me  here  to  go  mad  !" 

Tighter  the  old  man  clutched  his  club  as  he  ap 
proached  the  boy  from  behind.  He  poised  it  in  the  air. 
He  measured  the  distance  to  the  back  of  his  head  with 
his  eye. 

"  And  to  stand  there  coolly  singin',  as  lie  looks  out 
upon  the  two  graves!"  muttered  "'49"  to  himself. 
Then  he  paused  a  second,  for  he  seemed  to  catch  a  note 
in  the  low,  half-inaudible  air  that  he  had  somewhere 
heard  before.  For  this  man  had  been  no  savage  in  his 
youth,  whatever  he  may  have  been  now. 

Devine  was  waiting  for  the  girl.  He  once  or  twice  half 
turned  his  head  to  ascertain  if  she  was  getting  ready  to 
go.  Then  he  continued  to  sing. 

Again  the  old  man  seemed  resolved.  He  raised  his 
club.  The  table  was  a  little  in  the  way.  He  stepped 
around  it,  and  at  the  same  time  peered  into  the  corner 
to  ascertain  if  Came  saw  him.  Her  head  was  still  bowed 
above  the  dog,  and  she  was  now  sobbing  bitterly.  He 
measured  the  distance. 

The  blow  would  fall  at  the  base  of  the  brain.  The 
neck  would  be  broken.  One  step  nearer  !  Then  he  set 
his  right  foot  firmly  in  front,  and  gathered  all  his 
strength.  The  club  leaped  in  the  air. 

The  dog  growled.  The  young  man  half  turned  his 
head,  and  the  other  lowered  his  club  and  pushed  the  bits 
of  quartz  about  on  the  table.  He  took  a  piece  in  his 
hand  and  fell  back  toward  the  fire.  He  made  pretence 
of  examining  it.  The  young  man  again  looked  out  at 
the  soft  and  silvery  moonlight,  down  the  valley,  and 
again  began  to  sing  to  himself. 


GOING   AWAY.  83 

It  was  tlie  old  melody — "  '49V  melody — the  notes  he 
and  Mary  had  sung  together — the  song  he  had  sung 
every  year  since  he  had  left  her  leaning  there  in  tears  by 
the  mantel. 

The  old  man  grew  wild  !  His  eyes  took  fire.  He 
seemed  to  grow  tall,  as  a  storm-tossed  pine.  He  was 
strong  as  a  giant.  He  felt  like  a  lion.  Surely  he  was 
going  mad.  He  thought  of  Mary,  of  the  baby  in  the 
cradle,  of  the  gold  in  the  tunnel.  He  was  so  certain  of 
that  gold,  he  could  see  it.  And  yet  he  was  going  to 
share  it  with  this  wretch  ! 

Gold  is  hard.  Gold  is  a  hard  substance,  and  it  is  the 
most  hardening  substance  in  the  world. 

"  '49"  glanced  swiftly  about  to  see  if  he  had  been  ob 
served.  He  listened.  Only  now  and  then  a  half-sup 
pressed  sob  burst  in  the  corner,  that  Devine  could  not 
hear  for  his  own  sad  song  ;  only  the  deep  breathing  of 
the  bulldog,  the  snapping  of  the  pine-knot,  the  gurgle  of 
the  water  in  the  canon  without.  Nothing  ;  no  one  had 
seen  or  heard  anything  at  all. 

He  clutched  his  pick-handle  once  more.  lie  stood 
erect,  and  moved  with  confidence  and  precision.  He 
was  resolute  now.  Let  the  dog  growl  if  he  liked.  He 
would  kill  the  dog,  too.  Gold  !  gold  !  gold  !  All 
should  be  his.  Not  one  ounce  to  this  merciless  stranger 
who  had  laid  bare  the  reproachful  stones,  and  would  now 
rob  him  of  the  little  girl  he  had  learned  to  love  ! 

As  the  old  man  again  planted  his  foot  in  front  and 
poised  his  pick-handle  for  the  fatal  blow,  the  moonlight 
fell  like  silver  across  the  window-sill.  Then,  as  if  he 
had  been  waiting  for  that,  the  boy  began  to  sing — to  sing 
clear  and  strong  and  full — the  song  which  his  mother 
had  bade  him  sing  when  he  was  desolate. 

The  heavy  pick-handle  sank  to  the  floor,  the  old  man 


84  '49,    THE   GOLD-SEEKER  OF  THE   SIERRAS. 

leaned  forward,  and  from  the  low,  sad  song  drank  in 
these  words  : 

"  Then  sing  the  song  we  loved,  love, 

When  all  life  seemed  one  song, 
For  life  is  none  too  long,  love, 
Ah,  love  is  none  too  long." 

"  "Who  can  know  them  but  she  and  I  ?  It  is  sacred  to 
us  alone  !  It  is  her  song  ;  it  is  her  voice  !' '  He  sprang 
forward,  and  clutching  the  young  man's  shoulder,  he 
drew  him  round,  and  cried  in  his  face  : 

"  Where — where  did  you  learn  that  song  ?" 

Coldly  and  calmly  the  young  man  answered,  looking 
him  sternly  in  the  eyes,  while  the  girl,  who  had  started 
forward,  stood  at  his  side,  all  wonderment  : 

"It  is  my  mother's  song.  It  is  the  song  that  my 
father — my  father  yonder — my  father  ! —  They  sung  it 
together,  while  they  lived,  each  Christmas  Eve.  And 
my  mother— God  bless  her — sings  it  still.  But  my 
father  yonder — " 

"  1— I.     No  !  no  !     I  am—" 

The  weak  and  broken  old  man  could  no  longer  bear 
up.  His  head  spun  round,  words  failed  him,  and  he  fell 
unconscious  to  the  floor. 

The  girl  had  a  little  bundle  in  her  hand,  and  she  held 
the  old  slobber-mouthed  dog  by  a  string.  She,  too,  had 
seen  a  deadly  battle  fought  between  love  and  duty,  with 
her  own  heart  for  the  battle- tield.  Love  had  won. 
Duty  had  been  beaten,  and  she  stood  with  her  dog  and 
little  bundle  ready  to  follow  wherever  her  lover  might 
choose  to  lead  her.  But  they  had  no  thought  of  leaving 
the  old  man  now.  The  first  burst  of  the  young  man's 
passion  subsided,  and  as  he  recalled  old  "  '49V  deeds  of 
kindness  in  the  past,  he  felt  remorse  and  profoundest 

pity- 


GOING    AWAY.  85 

So  they  laid  "  '49"  on  his  bank  in  the  corner,  be 
hind  the  faded  calico  curtains,  and  coaxed  him  back  to 
life  and  consciousness. 

How  he  wanted  to  embrace  his  boy  !  But  the  lad 
seemed  so  cold,  so  distant  and  hard  now.  He  had  never 
seen  him  so  before.  Once  he  tried  to  sino;  the  old  soncr. 

O  o 

But  he  had  no  strength  or  voice.  Then  he  thought  he 
would  say  over  to  himself  the  lines,  and  let  his  boy  hear 
him  as  he  bent  over  him.  He  thought  he  would  say 
them  low  and  softly  and  not  above  a  whisper  at  first. 
Then  he  whispered  to  himself,  and  slept  unheard,  even 
as  he  breathed  : 

"  For  life  is  none  too  long,  love, 
And  love  is  none  too  long." 

Then  he  dreamed.  He  dreamed  of  her.  He  had  re 
turned  with  gold.  With  heaps  and  heaps  of  gold.  He 
saw  her  standing  by  the  mantel,  with  head  bowed,  just 
as  of  old.  He  asked  her  for  their  baby  that  he  had  left 
in  that  cradle,  and  she  pointed  through  the  window  at 
an  empty  bird's-nest  in  an  apple  tree.  Then  a  tall, 
bearded  boy  embraced  him,  and  called  him  father. 
Then  he  dreamed  again  of  gold.  Gold  !  gold  !  Heaps 
and  heaps  of  gold  !  This  awakened  him,  and  he  got  up. 
Then  he  crossed  on  tip-toe  to  where  his  boy  sat  sleeping 
in  the  corner,  put  back  his  hair,  and  tenderly  kissed  his 
forehead. 

It  was  dawn  now,  and,  rousing  Carrie,  who  had  gone 
to  sleep  with  her  arms  about  the  dog's  neck,  he  bade  her 
awaken  young  Devine. 


CHAPTER  X. 

SO  WEAKY  ! 

It  seems  to  me  that  Mother  Earth 

Is  weary  from  eternal  toil, 

And  bringing  forth  by  fretted  soil, 
In  all  the  agonies  of  birth. 

Sit  down  !  Sit  down  !  Lo,  it  were  best 

That  we  should  rest — that  she  should  rest. 

I  think  we  then  should  all  be  glad, 

At  least  I  know  we  are  not  now  ; 

Not  one.     And  even  Earth  somehow 
Seems  growing  old  and  over-sad. 

Then  fold  your  hands,  for  it  were  best 

That  we  should  rest — that  she  should  rest. 

WHETHER  it  was  the  old  man's  dream  of  heaps  of 
gold,  or  the  young  man's  reviving  hopes  of  striking  it 
yet,  that  persuaded  him  to  enter  the  tunnel  once  more,  1 
can't  say.  Certain  it  is  that  as  "  '49"  took  up  his  gnn 
and  hobbled  off  to  make  provision  for  dinner,  Devine 
again  shouldered  his  pick  and  returned  to  the  tunnel, 
while  Carrots,  as  usual,  wandered  away  up  on  the  hill  to 
find  flowers  for  her  lover  and  "  '49." 

On  this  particular  day  the  gay  and  dashing  Gully  camo 
down  the  trail  and  stood  in  all  his  splendor  in  the  empty 
door-yard  before  the  cabin.  lie  was  engaged  in  talking 
to  himself. 

"  Lucky  !  Better  born  lucky  than  rich  any  day. 
Lucky  !  why,  they  called  me  Lucky  Tom  Gully  on  the 
Mississippi  steamers  when  1  was  a  gambler  ;  Lucky  Tom 


SO    WEARY  !  87 

Gully  when  I  was  a  loafer  in  Chicago  ;  and  I  had  not 
been  in  the  mines  a  month  till  the  miners  called  me 
Lucky  Tom,  by  intuition — Lucky  !"  And  here  ho 
lighted  his  cigar.  "  I'm  to  be  married  to  Belle  to-night. 
But,  somehow,  I  don't  feel  quite  solid,  with  that  young 
fellow  and  '  '49  '  at  sword-points.  1  must  make  up  with 
them.  I  must  ask  them  to  my  wedding.  It's  a  bold 
stroke.  But  it  is  the  bold  stroke  that  wins.  Poor 
Charley  Devine  !  1  quite  paralyzed  him  with  my  bold 
ness  when  he  first  carne  to  the  camp.  He  has  not 
spoken  to  me  since.  Poor  simpleton  !  Pegging  away 
in  that  old  tunnel,  without  a  cent,  or  even  a  coat  to  his 
back,  or  shoe  to  his  foot."  As  he  puffed  away  and 
lifted  his  heavy  face  to  the  splendor  of  the  mighty 
mountains  about  him,  he  heard  Carrots  singing  gayly  in 
the  crags  above. 

"  Carrots  !  Why  am  I  afraid  of  that  girl  ?  Afraid  ? 
Yes,  it  is  fear  that  drives  me  to  make  friends  with  them 
— all  three— after  doing  all  I  could  to  destroy  them. 
An  honest  set  of  idiots,  that  I  hate,  and  yet  fear.". 

Carrots  came  down  from  the  rocks,  carrying  a  basket 
in  which  was  a  loaf  of  bread  hidden  by  flowers  and  ever 
greens. 

"  Hello,  Store-clothes  !"  she  cried.  "  Now,  what 
do  you  want  in  old  '  '49\s  '  door-yard  ?  Better  not  get 
inside.  A  bulldog  is  there  !" 

"  Hates  me  as  bad  as  ever,  I  see.  It's  not  safe  to 
have  such  enemies."  Then  approaching  the  girl  and 
affecting  gentleness,  he  added  :  "  Carrots,  listen  to  me. 
I've  come  to  ask  you  and  '  '49'  and  that  other  fellow 
to — to  my  wedding."  The  gambler,  all  hardened  as  he 
was,  stumbled  at  the  last  word. 

"  You  don't  say  so  !"  cried  Carrots.  "  Well,  I  don't 
think  '  '49 '  and  '  that  other  fellow,'  as  you  call  him,  will 


88  '49,    THE   GOLD-SEEKER   OF  THE  SIERRAS. 

come  to  your  wed  din'.  But,  I'll  tell  you  what  1  tliink 
they  would  do,  if  you  would  ask  'em." 

"  Well,  my  dear  little  wild  flower,  what  would  they 
do  if  I  asked  them  ?" 

"  Well,  I'll  tell  you.  1  know  they  won't  come  to 
your  weddin'.  But  they  would  both  be  powerful  glad 
to  come  to  your  funeral." 

"  Bah  !"  and  a  flash  of  malicious  hatred  came  into  his 
eyes. 

As  she  spoke  Colonel  Billy,  the  blazing  comet,  came 
upon  the  scene.  But  he  had  taken  a  vaster  orbit  now. 
The  "  Vigilantes,"  or  rather  a  set  of  sleek  villains, 
under  shelter  of  that  honored  appellation,  had  taken 
possession  of  the  cainp  and  banished  all  idlers,  which 
included  all  persons  hostile  to  themselves. 

"Banished!  Banished  by  the  Yigilantes  at  last!" 
gasped  the  comet. 

"  What  !  driven  out  ?"  said  Gully,  with  affected  pity  ; 
and  then,  chuckling,  added  to  himself,  "  My  work. 
lie  is  not  for  me,  and  is,  therefore,  against  me.  He 
must  go." 

"  Yes,  new  people  come,  call  themselves  Yigilantes, 
and  drive  us  old  ones  out.  It's  rough,  it's  tough. 
Total  wreck — total  wreck." 

"  Well,  Colonel  Billy,"  said  Gully,  "  shake  hands  and 
part  friends.  But  it's  too  late  to  set  out  on  a  journey 
with  your  blankets  to-night.  What  !  Won't  shake 
hands  ?" 

"  Not  with  you,  1  reckon.  Not  with  you.  Pretty 
low  down — total  wreck — but  never  shook  hands  with  a 
man  that  shook  his  friends,  and  never  will." 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?" 

"  I  mean  you  are  a  Yigilante.  Yes.  I  know  you  by 
— by — the  pure  cussedness  that's  in  you." 


SO   WEARY  ! 

"  Why,  1 — I  am  not  a  Vigilante.     I  am — " 

"A  liar." 

"What?" 

"  Stick  to  it,  Billy  !"  cried  Carrie,  as  she  handed  him 
the  knife  with  which  she  had  been  cutting  flowers. 
"  He  is  a  Vigilante,  and  the  worst  of  the  lot."  And 
the  girl's  face  was  aflame. 

"  You  are  !"  shouted  the  colonel,  flourishing  his 
knife.  "  And  you  are  the  man  that's  been  sendin'  oil 
all  '  '49 's  '  friends  one  by  one,  one  by  one.  And  at 
last  you'll  send  him  off,  and  then  Dandy.  Oh,  you'  ve 
got  devilment  in  you  bigger  than  a  mule.  But  I'll  go. 
Total  wreck — total  wreck.  I'll  see  old  '  '49  '  just  once 
more  and  go.  For  he  too  is  played  out.  An  old  miner 
that  never  did  any  harm.  That  for  twenty-five  years 
dug  out  gold  from  the  Sierras  to  make  the  world  rich. 
But  now — never  mind.  I'll  go.  I'll  go.  Total 
wreck."  And  he  dropped  the  knife  on  the  table  and 
stumbled  down  the  rocky  trail. 

"  Now,  do  you  see  what  kind  of  a  critter  you  are  ?" 
sobbed  Carrie.  "  Poor,  poor  old  Colonel  Billy  !  Why, 
if  he  owned  the  whole  Sierras,  and  you  come  and  wanted 
it,  he'd  give  it  to  you.  And  here  you  come,"  she 
added,  indignantly,  "  and  he  must  go.  You  won't  let 
him  have  even  a  place  to  lie  down  and  die  in." 

"  Carrots,  don't  be  too  hard.  The  man  is  sent  away 
because  he  has  no  visible  means  of  support.  All  such 
men  must  leave  the  camp.  1  am  going  to  get  married 
and  settle  down,  and  I  want  a  respectable  neighbor 
hood." 

' '  "Well,  we  can' t  have  that  wrhile  you're  around. " 

"No?" 

"  No  !  Guess  you'll  go  after  '  '49  '  and  Charley  next. 
But  if  you  do,  look  out  for  lightnin'." 


90  '49,    THE   GOLD-SEEKER  OF  THE   SIEURAS. 

"  No,  1  won't  ;  all  such  honest  and  industrious  fellows 
like  them  will  remain,  and  I  will  make  friends  with 
them." 

"  Bet  you  a  forty-dollar  hoss  you  don't  make  friends 
with  them." 

"  Oh,  but  1  will  !  I  am  going  now  to  the  tunnel  to 
find  Charley  and  '  '49,'  and  I'll  bet  you  a  new  silk  dress 
they  both  come  to  my  wedding.  Good- by  for  a  few 
minutes.  I  will  see  Charley,  and  you  will  all  come  to 
my  wedding  to-night."  And  he  hurried  away. 

"  To-night  !"  mused  Carrots  to  herself,  as  she  still 
arranged  the  flowers  for  Charley.  "  To-night  !  And 
that  nasty  Belle  is  to  be  married  to-night.  Well,  it's 
about  a  match,  1  guess,"  and  as  she  trimmed  the  flowers, 
she  sat  at  the  table  singing  an  old  negro  melody.  She 
arranged  the  leaves  in  the  basket,  and  made  her  bouquet 
very  picturesque,  and  set  it  in  an  old  can  on  the  table. 
"  That  bucket's  for  his  dinner.  "Wonder  where  I  got 
that  song.  Think  1  kno wed  it  always, ' '  she  muttered  ; 
and  she  recommenced  it. 

The  flaming  comet  returned,  poking  its  fiery  nose  in 
the  little  girl's  face.  He  was  drunk  and  happy. 

"  That  ain't  '  '49's  '  Christmas  song  (hie)— that  ain't." 

"What!  Not  gone,  Colonel  Billy?  I'm  glad  of 
that. " 

"  I  got  a  drink  (hie) — a  farewell  drink — down  at  the 
forks  of  the  trail  ;  a  real,  genuine,  good  farewell  drink 
(hie).  Feel  better.  Won't  go  at  all  now. " 

"  Good.  You  stay  right  here.  This  is  the  centre  of 
the  earth." 

"  It  is.  Why,  I  couldn't  leave  this  place  nohow  (hie). 
I  should  go  round,  and  round,  and  round,  like  the  sun 
around  the  world,  and  never,  never  git  away.  No  !  1 
guess  I've  dug  holes  enough  in  the  Sierras  to  entitle  me 


SO   WEARY  !  91 

to  a  grave.  And  I'll  stay,  (hie) — go  right  back  to  town 
and  stay.  If  they  want  to  hang,  let  'ern  hang.  Don't 
care  anything  to  be  (hie)  hanged  !"  And  the  poor  old 
colonel  tottered  on  up  the  trail. 

A  few  moments  passed  when  young  Devine  suddenly 
dashed  in,  holding  a  package  of  papers  with  a  big  red  seal  ; 
he  was  fearfully  excited,  and  looked  back  over  liis 
shoulder,  like  one  pursued. 

11  Why,  Charley,  how  excited  you  are  !" 

"  No,  no  ;  never  mind  that  ;  where  is  '  '49  '  ?" 

"  Why,  he  was  to  town,  and  1  heard  him  ask  the  store 
man  for  credit,  and  the  store  man  said  he  couldn't  have 
even  a  cracker  any  more.  So  he  went  off  with  his  gun 
to  get  somethin'  good  for  our  dinner,  I  guess.  But 
what's  the  matter,  Charley  ?" 

"  Nothing  ;  nothing,  my  child— my  darling.  But  can 
you  keep  a  secret  ?  Oh,  I  do  wish  '  '49  '  was  here. 
Can  you  keep  this  for  me  ?  Keep  it  as  you  would  keep 
gold."  And  he  gave  her  the  broad  package  of  papers. 
"  You  will  keep  it  and  the  secret  ?" 

Silently  the  girl  hid  the  papers  in  her  bosom. 

"  Thank  you  !  Thank  you,  my — my — my — love,  my 
life.  Yes,  yes,  1  love  you,  poor,  pitiful  little  waif  of 
the  camp,  with  all  my  heart.  But  there,  1  must  go  back 
to  the  tunnel  to  my  work.  Tell  no  one  1  was  here.  Do 
not  even  whisper  it  to  '  '49.'  There  !"  and  eagerly, 
wildly,  he  kissed  her.  ' '  Good-by  ;  1  will  be  back  soon, 
soon,  soon."  And  the  excited  man  dashed  away  as  he 
came. 

"  He  kissed  me  !  And  he  loves  me  !  Oh,  my 
patience  !  Kissed  me,  and  kissed  me,  and  kissed  me  ! 
Kissed  me  three  times  at  onct.  It  took  my  breath  away. 
Oh,  I'm  so  happy  !  He  gave  me  this  to  keep.  I 
wonder  what  it  is  ?  And  1  wonder  what  the  secret  is  ? 


92  '49,   THE   GOLD-SEEKER  OF  THE   SIEERAS. 

And  what  the  trouble  is  ?  Trouble  ?  Trouble  ?  No  ; 
there  is  no  trouble  now.  There  can  never  be  any 
trouble  any  more  now,  for  Charley  kissed  me." 

As  she  talked  to  herself,  "  '49"  entered  the  door-yard 
with  a  hairy  ring-tailed  coon,  his  gun  on  his  shoulder. 
"  Hello,  Carrots  !  Goin'  to  sing  the  old  song  for 
me?" 

"  Yes  ;  and  1  won't  never  go  to  old  Mississip  no 
more." 

"  That's  right.  You  stay  right  here,  and  when  I 
strike  it — ha,  ha  ! — but  won't  you  kiss  me  ?" 

Carrots  was  a  long  time  arranging  her  mouth  ;  she 
shrugged  up  her  shoulders,  laughing  as  she  remembered 
Charley's  kisses. 

"Yes;  oh,  yes.  There!  1  wanted  to — to — to — kiss 
somebody  again  !"  "  '49"  started,  surprised.  "  Does 
it  ?  Do  you  ?  Did  it — did  it  do  you  as  much  good  to 
• — to —  Do  you  like  as  well  to  be  kissed  as — as —  Do 
you  feel  as  splendid  as  1  did  when — when —  Does  it 
make  you  tingle  all  over,  and  feel  comfortable  and 
warm,  and  summery,  when — "  And  here  the  girl  hid 
her  face,  and  then  whirled  about  and  laughed  in  the  old 
man's  beard  till  she  cried. 

"  Why,  what  do  you  mean  ?" 

"  He — he — he — he  kissed  me  ;  he — Charley." 

"  Go— go — go — 'long." 

"  Yes,  he  did.  And  he  said  he  loved  me,  and  he  has 
gone  back —  Then,  suddenly  and  very  seriously,  she 
said,  "  No,  he — he — he  wasn't  here  to-day  ;  it  was 
yesterday — to-morrow  !' ' 

"  Well,  I  don't  care  when  it  was  or  where  it  was. 
He's  an  honest,  square  boy  ;  and  when  we  strike  it  in 
the  tunnel,  I'll  make  you  rich,  rich.  But  it's  rough 
times  now.  Hain't  seen  such  times  since  '49." 


SO    WEARY  !  93 

"  '  '49,'  tell  me  somethin'.  Didn't  you  never  love 
nobody  ?" 

"  Why,  why,  yes,  my  girl.     1 — I  loved  my  mother." 

"  I  wish  I'd  a  had  a  mother.  But,  1  reckon,  I  never 
had.  No,  I  guess  I  never  had  a  mother,  '  '49.'  : 

"  Never  had  a  mother  to  love  ?" 

"No;  guess  that's  why  I  love  Charley,  ain't  it  ?  But, 
now,  come,  '  '49,'  didn't  you  never  have  anything  to  love 
besides  your  mother  ?  Not  baby  in  the  cradle  ;  eh  ?" 

"  My  child,  don't  ask  me  that— don't." 

"  Why  I  won't,  then,  '  '49,'  if  it  hurts  your  feelin's. 
But  I  kind  o'  like  to  talk  about  such  things  now." 

"  Well,  what  is  it  I  can  tell  you  about  now  ?" 

"  Why,  about  yourself.  You  are  always  shut  up  just 
as  tight  as  a  bear  in  winter-time.  Weren't  you  never 
young  ?  And  didn't  you  never  love  no  girl  like  me  ?" 

"Yes,  yes,  yes." 

"  And  she  didn't  love  you  back  ?" 

"She  did!     God  bless  her  !" 

The  girl  left  her  flowers  and  crossed  over  to  "  '49." 

"  And  why  didn't  you  live  with  her,  then  ?" 

"  Now,  Carrots,  you're  liftin'  up  the  water-gates,  and 
you'll  flood  the  whole  mine,"  he  replied,  in  a  weary 
and  half-bewildered  tone. 

"Well,  I'm  so  sorry,  ''49.'  I'm  so  sorry.  But  1 
want  to  know.  I've  got  no  mother  to  talk  to,  '  '49,'  and 
I— I  want  to  know  how  these  things  come  out.  Tell  me 
about  it,  please  tell  me  about  her."' 

"  I  will  tell  you,  my  honest  child,  I'll  tell  you  some 
time." 

"Well,  sit  down  on  this  rock  here.  Tell  me  now, 
won't  you?" 

The  girl  half  led  and  half  forced  the  feeble  old  man 
around  and  down  on  to  a  great  flat  rock  in  the  door-yard  ; 


94  '49,    THE   GOLD-SEEKER   OF   THE   SIERRAS. 

and  so,  flowers  in  hand,  sank  down  at  his  feet,  with  her 
head  almost  in  his  lap. 

As  if  not  heeding  her,  the  man  looked  at  the  flowers, 
and  caressed  her  tenderly. 

"  And  you  like  those  little  winter  flowers  you  have 
gathered  from  the  rocks  for  Charley  and  me  ?  The 
lowly  little  flowers  ?" 

"  Yes,  yes,  they  are  so  lowly  ;  and  they  ain't  bright. 
But  they're  so  sweet,  '  '49.'  " 

"  True,  true  !  My  child,  in  this  cold,  hard  world 
the  sweetest  flowers  are  lowly.  The  sweetest  flowers 
grow  closest  to  the  ground." 

"  And  you  did  love  her  ?     Tell  me,  '  '49,'  tell  me." 

Still,  in  an  evasive  mood,  the  old  man  tried  to  escape 
the  curious  little  maid,  as  he  said  : 

"  And  Charley's  got  a  sweetheart  ?" 

"  Yes,  he's  got  a  sweetheart,  and  I've  got  a  sweetheart. 
Now,  didn't  you  never  have  a  sweetheart,  '  '49  '  ?" 

"  No,  no,  no — shoo  !  Do  you — you  think  it  will  rain 
this  evenin'  ?' ' 

li  1  don't  know,  and  1  don't  care.  I  know  I've  got  a 
sweetheart,  and  Charley's  got  a  sweetheart.  And  didn't 
you  really  never  have  a  sweetheart,  '  '49  '  ?" 

"My  child,  I — I — yes,  I'll  tell  you.  I  never  told 
anybody.  But  I'll  tell  you,  and  tell  you  now  ;  and 
never,  never  do  you  mention  it  any  more,  for  I  can't 
bear  to  think  about  it,"  and  his  voice  quivered. 

"  Why,  poor,  dear  '  '49,'  you're  all  broke  up — why, 
I  didn't  know  you  ever  could  cry." 

The  old  man's  rugged  cheeks  were  dashed  with  tears  as 
lie  began  between  his  sobs  to  tell  his  story  in  broken  bits. 

"  AVell,  you  see  that  poor  wife  leanin'  her  head  on 
the  mantel  there — she  stands  before  me  all  the  time  when 
I  turn  back  to  think,  and  it  makes  me  cry." 


SO    WEARY  !  95 

"  But  she — she  was  good  and  true  ?" 

"  Good  and  true  ?  Good  and  true  ;  and  pure  as  the 
gold  I'm  to  find  in  the  tunnel  and  make  you  and  Charley 
rich  with,  my  girl." 

"  And  you  will  never  see  her  any  more  ?" 

"  Yes,  yes,  when  I  strike  it  in  the  tunnel.  But, 
then,  you  see,  it  was  so  long,  so  long,  so  long  !  When 
I  began  that  tunnel  1  was  certain  I'd  strike  it  in  a  month 
— then  1  said  in  a  year.  And  all  the  time  the  little  boy- 
baby  crowin'  in  its  cradle,  and  its  sweet  mother  bendin' 
over  by  the  mantel  waitin',  waitin',  waitiri'." 

"Dear,  dear  old  "4:9."' 

"You  see,  we  Forty-niners  never  knowed  much  of 
books,  or  were  much  for  writin'  letters.  And  then,  you 
know,  we  wanted  to  surprise  'em  at  home.  And  so  we 
didn't  write,  but  kept  waitin'  to  strike  it,  and  go  back 
and  surprise  'em.  A  year  slipped  through  my  fingers, 
and  another,  and  another,  and  another,  and  another. 
But  I'll  strike  it  yet.  I'll  strike  it  yet." 

"  Oh,  I'm  so  sorry  !  I  wonder  if  Charley — well,  I'd 
never  let  Charley  go  off  like  that — no,  sir'ee  !'' 

"  But  there,  there  ;  never  mind.  I'll  see  her  yet. 
Yes,  I  will.  And  you  are  goin'  to  be  rich,  too,  some 
day.  Oh,  1  will  strike  it  yet.  You  will  be  a  great  lady 
some  day,  see  if  you  won't.  But  we  must  get  dinner 
now."  And  here  he  put  the  girl  from  before  him,  as 
he  rose  and  picked  up  the  coon.  "  It  is  goin'  to  be  a 
glorious  good  dinner,  too." 

"  What  are  you  goin'  to  have  ?" 

"This— coon  !" 

"  What's  Charley  goin'  to  have?  lie's  been  work- 
in'  in  the  tunnel  all  day." 

"  He's  goin'  to  have  coon,  too." 

"  Buthe  don't  like  coon." 


90  '49,    THE   GOLD-SEEKER   OF   THE    SIERRAS. 

"  Why  not  ?  Coon  is  better  than  horse,  or  mnle,  or 
dog.  I've  tried  'em  all.  I  have  been  here  since  '49, 
and  I  reckon  I  ought  to  know  ;  coon  is  the  best  thing, 
for  this  season  of  the  year,  in  the  world.  I  have  just 
been  yearniii'  for  coon,  just  been  pinin'  for  coon.  Set 
the  table,  Carrots."  Then,  going  to  the  cabin  and  hold 
ing  up  the  coon,  and  talking  to  himself,  he  said  : 
"  Oh,  why  did  you  cross  my  path  ?  Why  wasn't  you  a 
deer,  or  a  grouse,  or  a  rabbit,  or  a  squirrel,  or  anything 
in  this  world  but  a  horrible,  greasy,  ring-tailed  coon  2" 

"  Poor  old  '  '49  !'  and  he  loves  her  and  he  left  her, 
too.  If  Charley  should  leave  me  like  that,  I'd —  As 
Carrie  was  thus  musing  alone  Devine  came  up  from  behind. 

"  You'd  wrhat,  my  pretty  pet  ?"  said  the  young  man, 
as  he  threw  down  his  pick  and  specimens  and  stooped  to 
kiss  her. 

"  Oh,  Charley  !  Didn't  think  you  was  in  a  thousand 
miles  of  here,  or  1  wouldn't  have  been  thinkin'  about 
you  at  all." 

"  And  really  you  ought  not  to  think  about  me.  I'm 
not  worth  thinking  about  ;  so  much  trouble — so  much 
trouble,"  he  added,  sadly. 

"  Why,  what  trouble  can  there  be,  Charley  ?  If  you 
love  me,  and — and  I  love  you,  and  all  this  beautiful 
world  is  ours  to  love  in,  why  what  trouble  can  there  be  ? 
But  I  must  set  the  table  now." 

Devine  kissed  his  hand  to  her,  and  sat  on  the  rocks 
reading  a  letter  just  come  in  from  Lawyer  Snowe,  as  she 
set  the  table  and  sang. 

Then  suddenly  she  stopped,  and,  looking  up  archly, 
said  :  "  Oh,  Charley,  did  you  hear  the  news  ?  Belli)  and 
—stop  a  minute  !  Will  you  take  the  news  a  little  at  a 
time,  or  all  in  a  heap  ?  Well,  then,  here  goes,  all  at 
once  !  They  are  to  be  married  to-night  !' ' 


SO    WEARY  !  97 

It  was  embarrassing  news  to  the  young  miner. 

"  Belle  to  be  married,"  lie  mused,  "to  that  man! 
And  what  will  Snowe  think  of  me?  He  must  have 
heard  it  somehow,  and  that  is  why  he  comes,  post-haste." 
And  he  again  referred  to  the  letter  just  received. 

"  And  you  used  to  like  her,  didn't  you  ?  You  used 
to  try  to  get  close  to  her,  and  say  things,  didn't  you  ? 
You  liked  her  and  she  liked  the  other  feller.  That's 
just  always  the  way.  Kobody  never  likes  anybody  that 
anybody  likes." 

"I  never  loved  Belle." 

"  You  never  loved  her  ?" 

"  I  did,  and  I  did  not.  Listen  :  a  man  with  a  heart 
must  love  something.  Love — the  love  of  woman — is  as 
necessary  to  a  real  man  as  the  sunlight  to  a  flower.  But 
until  a  man  meets  his  destiny,  reaches  his  ideal,  he  must 
reach  out  to  that  which  is  nearest  ;  as  the  vine  climbing 
feebly  up  to  the  sun  lays  hold  with  its  tendrils  on  what 
ever  it  can,  so  the  heart  of  a  man  takes  hold  of  the  highest 
nature  that  comes  near  his,  and  there  awaits  its  destiny. 
Jealousy  is  born  of  an  instinctive  knowledge  of  this 
truth." 

The  girl  started  away  and  then  came  back.      "  Hey  ?" 

"  You  don't  understand  ?" 

"  Ko  ;  that's  all  Modoc  to  me." 

"  Well,  you  will  understand  some  time.  So  run  along 
now.  I  am  sad,  and  must  sit  and  think." 

"  All  right  !     Just  so  you  don't  think  about  Belle." 

"Hello,  Charley!"  said  "'49,"  with  a  cheer  and 
tenderness  that  meant  much,  as  he  came  stooping  out 
from  the  cabin,  where  he  had  been  preparing  the  coon 
for  dinner.  "  Whew  !  Coon  without  ingerns,  without 
crackers.  I  ain't  seen  such  times,  Carrots,  since  '-10. 
Them  flowers  smell  so,  Carrots  ?" 


98  '49,    THE    GOLD-SEEKER   OF   THE   SIERRAS. 

"  1  don't  smell  nothin',  except  Lucky  Tom." 

"  I  am  as  hungry  as  a  wolf,  '  '49.'  What  have  you 
to-day  for  dinner  ?"  asked  Devine. 

Here  Carrots  caught  up  and  handed  her  flowers  to 
Charley.  She  thrust  them  in  his  face  for  fear  he  would 
smell  the  coon. 

"  I  brung  'em — I  brunged — I  bringed — I— brought 
'em — from  the  mountains — away  up  against  God's  white 


snow. 
it 


And  you  are  His  angel,  sent  down  from  the  shining 
gates.  California  flowers  !  How  beautiful  !  When 
my — what  is  that  I  smell  ?' ' 

"  Flowers  !" 

"  No  !  That's  the  coon,"  said  "  '49,"  grimly,  when 
lie  found  he  could  no  longer  conceal  the  truth.  "  We 
will  have  coon  for  dinner.  It  is  a  dinner  fit  for  a  king 
— coon  straight  !" 

The  young  man  saw  their  embarrassment,  and  tried  to 
laugh  as  he  said  :  "  If  it  tastes  as  it  smells,  I  am  afraid  I 
don't  want  any  coon  straight." 

"Yes,  guess  it  is  the  coon,  Charley;  I  thought  at 
iirst  it  was  the  flowers.  It  smells  strong  enough. 
Smells  stronger  than  Lucky  Tom,"  said  Carrots. 

"  Now,  look  here,  both  of  you.  Jnst  listen  to  me. 
There's  a  certain  time  in  the  year,  in  this  peculiar, 
glorious  climate,  when  you  require  a  change  of  diet- 
when  you  require  coon.  I  have  been  here  since  '49.  1 
reckon  I'd  ought  to  know." 

"Of  course  he  knows.  He's  right.  He's  always 
right.  I  know  that  coon — is — well,  coon  is  coon, 
Charley,"  added  Carrie. 

"  Yes,  that's  a  fact.  Why,  yon  couldn't  get  such  a 
dinner  as  coon  straight  in  New  York  for  love  or  money. 


SO    WEARY  !  99 

No,  not  even  in  London,'1  cried  brave  old  "  '49  "  with 
splendid  enthusiasm. 

Carrots  was  busy  all  this  time  setting  the  table. 

"  There's  the  salt  and  the  mustard,  and  where's  the 
pepper?  '  '49, '  "  she  cried,  "where's  the  black  pep 
per  ?  Oh,  here's  the  black  pepper.  And  here's  the  red 
pepper.  And  here's  the  gray  pepper."  And  with 
stately  and  graceful  ceremony  she  set  each  in  its  place 
on  the  rickety  old  table,  singing  snatches  of  old  negro 
songs. 

"  Black  pepper,  and  red  pepper,  and  white  pepper, 
and  gray  pepper.  Anything  else  ?"  laughed  Devine. 

"  Yes — yes  !  Here's  the  toothpicks.  What  mag 
nificent  toothpicks  for  this  season  of  the  year  !  Ding 
dong,  ding  dong.  First  bell."  Here  "  '49"  brought 
in  the  coon. 

"  Brave  little  Sunshine,  let's  make  the  best  of  it." 

"  Will  you  allow  me  ?"  said  Devine,  and  bending 
down  he  crooked  his  elbow  and  conducted  her  to  the 
table. 

"  It's  a  grand  thing  to  live  in  a  country  where  you 
can  get  coon  whenever  your  health  requires  it,"  said 
"  '49." 

"  It  is  a  delicious  coon,  Charley,"  replied  the  girl,  as 
she  pretended  to  eat  greedily,  holding  her  head  aside, 
pretending  to  be  afraid  lest  the  pepper  should  get  into 
her  eyes. 

"  It  is  a  grand  dinner,"  said  "  '49." 

"  Some  bread,  please,"  asked  Devine. 

"  Eh  ?" 

"  You  forgot  the  bread." 

"  1  didn't  forget  the  bread,  Charley.  You  never  eat 
bread  with  coon.  Coon  and  bread  don't  go  together. 


100  '49,    THE    GOLD-SEEKER   OF   THE    SIERRAS. 

Injins  never  cat  bread  with  their  coon.  I've  been  here 
since  '4-9,  and  I  ought  to  know." 

"  But  I  am  not  an  Indian,  and  1  can't  eat  this  coon 
without  bread." 

"  You  don't  expect  to  get  everything — coon  and  bread 
— and — everything  at  once,  do  you  ?"  cried  Carrots. 

"  But  I  can't  eat  this  without  bread  !"  exclaimed 
Devine. 

"  Look  here  ;  be  a  good  boy  and  eat  your  coon, 
Charley,"  urged  the  old  man. 

"  Hungry  as  I  am,  I  can't  eat  this." 

The  old  man  laid  down  his  knife  and  fork.      Risino- 

?"> 

slowly  and  sadly,  he  said,  from  the  bottom  of  his  brave 
old  heart  : 

"  "Well,  then,  listen  to  me.  I  have  done  the  best  I 
could.  1  tried  to  hide  it  all  from  you,  but  I  can't  any 
more.  A  good  many  times,  lately,  1  have  said  I  was 
sick,  and  I  didn't  eat.  It  was  because  there  was  not 
enough  for  both  of  us.  I  wanted  you  to  cat  and  be 
strong,  so  that  you  could  strike  it  in  the  old  tunnel. 
Now,  there  is  nothin'  more  to  eat.  Nothin'  more  for 
any  one.  Charle}*,  more  than  twenty  years  I  worked  on 
in  that  old  tunnel  there — all  alone — till  you  came.  I 
believed  every  day  that  1  would  strike  it.  All  my  com 
panions  are  dead,  or  have  made  their  piles  and  gone 
away.  All  along  the  long  and  lonely  road  of  my  hard 
life,  I  see,  as  I  look  back,  little  grassy  mounds — they 
are  the  poor  miners'  graves.  1  am  the  last  man  left. 
The  grass  every  year  steals  closer  and  closer  down  about 
my  cabin  door.  In  a  few  \ears  more  the  crass  will  <n-ow 

•/  *J  O 

over  that  door-sill,  and  long,  strong,  and  untrodden  it 
will  grow  in  my  trail  there  ;  the  squirrels  vviil  chatter  in 
these  boughs,  and  none  will  frighten  them  away— for 
"4-9 '  will  be  no  more  !  And  yet,  for  all  that,  I  have 


SO   WEARY  !  101 

never  complained.  1  did  believe,  and  I  do  still  believe, 
we  will  strike  it  yet.  But  now — but  now  !  If  you  lovo 
me,  eat  your  coon  !" 

There  were  tears  in  Charley's  eyes  as  he  cried  : 

"  My  dear  old  partner,  forgive  me.  Why  didn't  you 
tell  me  of  this  before  ?" 

"  If  you  love  me,  eat  your  coon — " 

Carrie  looked  from  one  to  the  other.  Her  lip  was 
trembling.  Tears  were  on  her  long,  heavy  eyelashes. 
Yet  she  tried  to  laugh. 

"Take  a  toothpick,  then,"  laughed  the  girl.  And 
then,  suddenly  serious  :  "I  didn't  mean  that,  Charley. 
You  shan't  be  without  bread.  Here  !"  and  she  took 
the  loaf  from  the  basket  under  the  table. 

"  Wiry,  where  did  you  get  this  ?" 

"  Up  there,  of  her — old  Mississip." 

"  Then  it's  her  bread,  and  we  won't  eat  it,"  said 
"  '49." 

"  It  ain't  her  bread.  It  was  her  bread,  but  I  stole  it, 
and  it  ain't  her  bread  any  more.  I  knowed,  '  '49,'  you 
had  no  bread.  They've  got  lots  of  bread,  and  1  don't 
care  that" — and  she  snapped  her  fingers — "  for  the 
whole  lot.  Why,  it  wasn't  nothin',  was  it,  Charley  ? 
If  it  was,  I  won't  never,  never  steal  any  more." 

Charley  shook  his  head.  "  It  was  stealing,  you 
know,"  he  said,  gravely.  "  But  I  am  riot  fit  to  re 
proach  you.  No ;  God  knows,  not  I.  That  man 
Gully  came  to  me  to-day,  taunting  me  with  his  good 
fortune  and  my  misery.  He  came  in  that  tunnel  to 
taunt  me.  And  there,  man  to  man,  I  fought  him, 
threw  him,  weak  as  I  was,  '  '49,'  and  took  from  him  a 
package  of  papers.  I  gave  it  to- her  to  keep." 

"  AVThy,  my  boy — •  what  ?  What  do  you  say, 
Charley  ?' ' 


102  '49,    THE   GOLD-SEEKER   OF   THE   SIERRAS. 

"  I  knocked  him  down  and  took  a  package  of  papers 
from  him." 

"  Yes,  and  I'll  keep  'em,  too  !"  shouted  the  girl,  as 
she  struck  her  breast. 

"  Charley,  Charley  !"  cried  "  '49."  "  Beware  of  the 
Yigilantes  !  The  conscience  of  California  !  The 
Vigilantes  !" 

"Well,  I'll  keep  'em  till  the  cowrs  come  home, 
Vigilantes  or  no  Vigilantes,"  answered  Carrie,  sulkily. 

"  My  poor,  poor  boy  !"  said  "  '49." 

"Gully  is  one  of  the  Vigilantes,  ''49,'"  said  the 
girl,  suddenly  starting  up  after  a  moment. 

"  Yes,  and  so  merciless  !  Give  me  that  package,  girl. 
I  will  keep  it." 

The  girl  handed  him  the  package,  while  the  young 
man  timidly  asked  : 

"  Why,  what  will  you  do  with  it  ?" 

"  When  they  come  for  it,  boy,  as  they  will,  I  will 
give  it  up.  Yes,  that's  right,  Charley.  That's  squar'  ! 
They  won't,  you  know — they  won't  dare  to  hurt  me. 
Why,  I've  been  here  since  '49.  They  won't  hurt  me, 
boy.  I'm  old  '  '49.'  Oh,  they  won't  hurt  me."  His 
affected  cheerfulness  as  he  spoke  was  pitiful  to  see. 

"  You  take  a  great  load  off  my  shoulders,  '  '49.'  Let 
me  tell  you  that  I  was  robbed  of  those  very  papers, 
which  made  my  mission  here  worse  than  useless.  1 
wrote  back  to  the  hard  old  lawyer,  and  he  has  answered 
gruffly  that  he  will  come  on  and  tend  to  the  business 
himself.  He  may  be  here  at  any  moment,  and  he  may 
find  me  accused  of  robbery  when  he  comes." 

"  There,  there,  pard,"  cried  "  '49."  "  It's  all  right, 
it's  all  right.  Now,  Carrots,  a  little  song — one  of  your 
pretty  little  negro  melodies  that  you  say  you  was  born 
a-singin'." 


SO   WEARY  !  103 

Just  as  Carrie  was  about  to  sing  she  glanced  down  the 
trail  and  paused  ;  her  eyes  opened  to  their  widest  extent. 

"  The  Vigilantes  !"  cried  the  girl,  as  she  looked  down 
the  trail  over  her  shoulder.  All  started  to  their  feet  as 
they  heard  a  sullen  tread.  The  Vigilantes  strode  into 
the  yard,  Gully  at  their  head. 

"  There  !"  he  shouted,  as  he  pointed  at  Devine. 
"  That's  the  man  that  robbed  me." 

"  You  are  the  prisoner  of  the  Vigilantes  !"  said  the 
captain  of  the  company.  "  Iron  him,  men  !" 

Here  the  old  miner's  voice  rang  out  : 

11  Stop  !  One  word  !  You  all  know  me.  I've  been 
here  since  '49.  This  boy — what  do  you  want  ?" 

"  The  man  who  robbed  me  of  my  papers,"  shouted 
Gully. 

"  We  want  the  robber,"  said  the  captain,  respectfully. 

"  Yes,  we  want  the  robber.  I  want  my  papers," 
roared  Gully. 

The  old  man  snatched  the  papers  from  his  bosom,  and 
as  he  held  them  aloft  cried:  "Here  they  are,  and — I 
am  the  robber  !' ' 

"What!      You,  old  "49'  ?" 

"Yes,  I!     Old  "49."' 


CHAPTER  XI. 

VIGILANTES. 

The  morning  rmist  succeed  the  night. 

All  storms  subside.     The  clouds  drive  by. 
And  when  again  the  glorious  light 
From  heaven's  gate  comes  bursting  through, 

Behold  !  The  rains  have  washed  the  sky 
As  bright  as  heaven's  bluest  blue. 

THE  sun  next  morning  Imrst  over  the  mighty  Sierra, 
summits  to  the  east,  and  down  into  the  little  mining 
camp,  in  possession  of  the  so-called  Vigilantes,  with  a 
glory  and  splendor  unknown  to  any  other  land  on  earth. 
What  cares  nature  for  the  petty  battles  of  poor,  schem 
ing,  plotting,  and  ever  unsatisfied  man  ? 

Snowe  had  come  post-haste  as  he  had  promised.  lie 
had  established  himself  for  the  night,  along  with  old 
black  Sam,  in  Mississip's  hotel,  while  "  '4-9"  was  kept  a 
prisoner  in  his  own  cabin  by  the  Vigilantes,  waiting  trial 
for  his  life. 

u  '49"  had  not  even  yet  had  the  heart  to  reveal  himself 
to  his  boy.  lie  would  "  strike  it"  yet  in  the  old  tunnel, 
and  then,  with  heaps  of  gold,  lie  would  take  him  to  his 
heart. 

Devino  had  left  " '49,"  with  Carrots  at  his  side, 
under  guard  in  his  own  cabin,  and  sought  the  shrewd 
but  crabbed  old  lawyer.  The  two  were  returning  to  the 
cabin  together,  where  "  '49V  trial  was  to  be  held.  The 
young  man  was  full  of  concern.  lie  knew  better  than 


VIGILANTES.  105 

did  the  old  lawyer  how  quick,  merciless,  and  cruel  are  the 
Vigilantes. 

"  These  Vigilantes,"  he  said  to  Snowe,  "  are  blood 
thirsty  ;  I  am  so  afraid  he  may  have  to  suffer." 

"Nonsense.  Never  fear.  I  never  lost  a  case  or 
made  a  mistake  in  my  life.  No,  sir.  Never  lost  a 
case,"  retorted  Snowe. 

"It's  fortunate  you  came.  Of  course,  he  has  no 
money  to  defend  himself  with.  But  I  tell  you  he  is  in 
nocent.  And  rather  than  see  him  suffer,  I  will  proclaim 
myself  the  guilty  party.  You  will,  you  must,  save  him. 
If  he  dies,  I  die  with  him." 

';  Stuff  !  gammon  !  rubbish  !  You've  got  to  live  ;  go 
to-night  to  your  mother  at  the  railroad  station.  Left  her 
there  till  I  could  come  on  and  fix  up  this  bother  about 
the  heiress.  She  wants  to  see  you,  you  young  rogue,  of 
course  ;  only  two  hours  away,  but  it's  awful  '  stage- 
ing.'  " 

"  Yes,  I  must  see  my  mother  ;  poor,  dear  mother. 
But  you  will  save  '  '49'  ?" 

"  Save  him  !  Of  course  I  will  save  him.  1  never 
made  a  mistake,  and  never  lost  a  case,  I  tell  you." 

"  Oli,  I  am  so  grateful,  so  thankful  you  have  come," 
and  tears  stood  in  the  young  man's  eyes. 

u  Yes  ;  you  see  your  mother  got  alarmed  about  you 
when  we  got  your  letter.  And  it  did  seem  to  me  you 
had  made  a  fool  of  yourself.  Yes,  fool, — that's  the 
word.  Why,  I'd  just  like  to  see  these  Californians  twist 
me  around  their  fingers  as  they  have  you.  I'd  give  them 
law  !  law  !  !  Yes,  sir,  law  !  And  now,  let  me  see  this 
old  "49'  !" 

And  the  brusque  and  blustering  old  lawyer  attempted 
to  enter  the  cabin.  The  guards  crossed  their  guns  on 
his  breast. 


106  '49,   THE   GOLD-SEEKER   OF  THE   SIERRAS. 

"  I  am  a  lawyer  ;  must  see  the  prisoner  ;  client  of 
mine.  I'm  a  lawyer — lawyer.  Do  you  understand  ?" 

"  A  lawyer,  humph  !"  muttered  the  captain. 

"Judge  Snowe,"  whispered  Devine,  "it  is  useless 
to  tell  them  you  are  a  lawyer.  Vigilantes  never  allow 
lawyers  to  interfere  or  even  be  present  at  any  of  their 
trials." 

The  old  advocate  was  for  a  moment  struck  dumb. 

In  grim  silence  the  guard  hustled  him  off  down  the 
trail,  black  Sam  limping  after  him. 

"  A  lawyer  !  He  must  be  a  stranger  in  California. 
A  lawyer  to  interfere  with  the  Vigilantes  !  Why,  we'd 
never  get  done,"  muttered  the  captain,  as  he  turned  and 
began  to  read  some  papers. 

"  The  last  hope  gone  !"  sighed  Devine,  as  Gully, 
entering,  shook  hands  and  talked  aside  with  the  captain. 

"  Well,  Captain  Hampton,  I  say,  bring  him  out,  and 
give  him  a  fair  trial,"  said  the  wily  villain,  with  a 
srnirk. 

"You  will  not,  you  dare  not,  take  that  old  man's 
life  !"  gasped  Devine,  aside  to  Gully. 

"  I  ?  No.  Of  course  1  shall  not  attempt  any  such 
thing.  The  law — the  honest  miner's  law — the  law  of 
the  Vigilantes  must  take  its  course.  If  a  man  can  bo 
knocked  down  in  this  camp  and  robbed  of  his  property, 
it's  time  we  knew  it." 

"  But  you  knowr  he  is  not  guilty." 

"  Listen.  You  and  I  know  a  great  deal  more,  per 
haps,  than  either  of  us  care  to  tell.  If  this  old  man  pre 
fers  to  die  in  your  place,  I  am  the  last  man  to  rob  him 
of  that  privilege.  Yesterday  I  reached  out  the  olive 
branch.  You  chose  to  knock  me  down  and  rob  me. 
lie  chooses  to  take  the  responsibility  of  your  act,  trust 
ing  his  gray  hairs  will  save  him.  Well,  I  hope  they 


VIGILANTES.  107 

may.  We  let  him  rest  all  night  in  his  own  cabin.  We 
will  give  him  a  fair  trial  now." 

"  You,  with  your  mockery  and  show  of  justice,  are 
the  devil  incarnate,"  hissed  Devine. 

"  Bring  the  prisoner  out  and  place  him  at  once  on 
trial,"  ordered  the  captain. 

The  guards  opened  the  cabin  door  ;  "  '49"  came  forth 
from  his  cabin  between  the  guards,  followed  by  Carrots, 
weeping. 

"  Pretty  hard  on  the  old  man,  eh,  Carrots  ?"  sneered 
Gully. 

The  girl  turned  on  him  suddenly,  the  fury  of  a  tigress 
gleaming  in  her  expression.  Her  hands  were  clinched 
and  her  eyes  aflame  as  she  cried  : 

"  Now,  look  here  ;  '  '49  '  never  wronged  anybody  in 
his  life.  He  didn't  rob  you.  He  didn't  hurt  your  head 
that  way,  and  you  know  it.  You  got  drunk  at  your 
wcddin'  last  night,  and  fell  into  a  prospect  hole.  Wish 
you'd  broke  your  neck." 

"  Have  you  any  witnesses  for  your  defence  ?"  asked 
the  captain,  in  kindly  tones,  to  the  silent  old  prisoner. 

"  Yes,  he  has!"  cried  the  girl,  as  Colonel  Billy 
tottered  up  the  trail. 

"  What  witnesses  ?"  asked  Gully. 

"  Total  wreck  !"  answered  the  colonel,  taking  his 
place  beside  "  '49." 

"  Hello  !  Come  back  to  be  hung,  have  you  ? 
What  can  you  swear  to  against  his  open  confession  ?" 
cried  Gully. 

"  What  do  you  (hie)  require  a  gentleman  to  swear  to  ? 
I'll-  oblige  you  ;  nothin'  mean  about  old  Colonel  Billy 
(hie)  in  a  case  like  this." 

"  I  tell  you,  boys,"  cried  Carrots,  as  she  turned  and 
appealed  to  the  miners,  "  he  didn't  do  it.  "49  '  hasn't 


108  '49,    THE    GOLD-SEEKER   OF   THE    SIERRAS. 

been  in  that  tunnel  for  a  month.  Ills  back's  too  stiff  ; 
got  rheumatix.  Why,  lie  can't  stoop  down."  And 
here  she  bent  her  neck  and  reached  her  face  to  "  '49," 
who  had  seated  himself  on  a  rock,  and  whispered  sharply 
in  hid  ear  :  "  Say  yes.  Don't  shake  your  head  like  that. 
Yes,  he's  got  rheumatix  so  he  can't  get  np  \vhen  he's 
down,  and  he  can't  get  down  when  he's  np.  And  the 
idea  that  he  could  whip  that  yaller  dog  there  !' ' 

"  Carrots,  don't— don't  call  names,"  protested  '"49." 

"  Well,  he  is  a  dog,  and  a  yaller  dog  at  that.  And  a 
yaller  dog  is  the  meanest  kind  of  a  dog.  Yes,  yaller 
dogs  sucks  eggs,"  shouted  the  furious  girl. 

"  Well,  I'm  a  witness.  1  swear  that  '  '49  '  didn't  do 
it.  I  swear  that  the  (hie)  yaller  dog  did  it  himself," 
blurted  out  the  colonel. 

"  ISTo,  no  !  It's  all  right,  boys.  It's  all  right.  lie 
lias  been  robbed.  It  was  bad,  bad.  I'm  sorry.  But 
he  got  it  back  ;  and  I  don't  deny  it,"  said  "  '49." 

"  But  you  shall  not  suffer  for  my- — my —  "  interposed 
Devine. 

"  Shoo  !  speak  low.  And  listen  to  me,  Charley.  In 
the  right-hand  corner  of  the  further  end  of  the  tunnel — 
1  saw  by  the  rocks  only  yesterday  that  we  are  on  the 
edge  of  a  vein,  a  seam,  a  river  of  pure  gold." 

"  Bad,  bad  !  It's  in  his  head  again,"  said  the  colonel 
to  himself,  as  he  tapped  his  forehead. 

"  My  dear  old  pardner,  let  us  forget  the  tunnel," 
pleaded  Devine. 

"  Forget  that  tunnel  ?  Forget  my  twenty-five  years 
of  life  wasted  there  !  My  wife  ?  My  baby  in  the— 
lie  stopped  and  shook  his  head,  and  then  said  to  him 
self  :  "No,  there  is  no  baby  there  now.  The  baby  is 
here.  Charley,  I  have  a  favor  to  ask,"  he  continued. 
"You  will  doit?" 


VIGILANTES.  109 

"  If  it  costs  mo  my  life  !" 

a  No,  it's  not  like  that.  You  go  now,  right  now,  into 
the  tunnel  and  bring  me  the  last  quartz  specimen  that 
fell  from  your  pick—" 

"  But  I  cannot  leave  you." 

"  Stop  !  You  said  if  it  cost  you  your  life.  And  yet 
here  you  refuse  to — 

"  Forgive  me.  1  will  go.  But  whatever  happens 
you  shall  not  die."  And  the  young  man,  after  whisper 
ing  a  few  words  in  Carrie's  ear,  bounded  away  in  the 
direction  of  the  tunnel. 

"  There's  a  great  lawyer  come,  '  '49,'  "  said  Carrots, 
hopefully. 

"  I  don't  want  no  lawyer.  I  want  you  to  listen  to 
me,,  Carrots." 

"  Yes,  I  am  listening  all  the  time.     What  is  it  ?" 

"  Carrots,  in  the  furtherest  right-hand  corner  of  the 
tunnel — "  But  the  crowd  was  impatient.  The  Vig 
ilantes  were  waiting,  and  Gully,  who  had  been  con 
ferring  with  the  captain,  came  forward  and  said  : 

"  Well,  if  you  all  insist,  of  course  we  must  proceed. 
Have  you  any  other  witnesses  ?" 

"  I  have  no  witnesses  but  myself,  accusing  myself." 

"  Yes,  yon  have  (hie)  plenty  of  witnesses.  I  am  a 
standin'  witness.  I  swear  that  I  was  with  '  '49  '  all  day 
yesterday,  every  minute." 

"  Can  you  swear  to  that  ?"  asked  the  captain,  eagerly. 

"  Certainly  (hie)  I  can,  and  1  do." 

"  Hold  up  your  right  hand." 

In  a  loud  voice,  and  holding  up  his  left  hand,  the 
colonel  testified  ;  "  I  swear  that  '  '49'  and  me  y ester- 
day-" 

"  Hold  up  your  right  hand." 

The  colonel  turned   around   and   shifted   his   old  hat 


110  '49,    THE   GOLD-SEEKER  OF  THE   SIEIUIAS. 

from  right  to  left,  and  from  left  to  right,  and  again  held 
up  his  left  hand. 

"I  swear—" 

The  captain  became  angry  and  impatient,  and,  forcing 
up  his  right  hand,  roughly  cried,  "  Will  you  be  sworn 
now  ?' ' 

"  No  ;  I'll  be  hanged  if  I'll  be  sworn." 

All  for  a  moment  was  still.  Then  the  captain  signalled 
Gully  to  tell  his  story. 

"  Well,  upon  the  oath  of  our  Order,  I  swear  that  on 
last  evening,  1,  on  this  very  spot,  after  I  had  been 
robbed,  accused  a  party  of  robbery,  and  that  this  old  man 
drew  this  package  from  his  breast,  which  had  been  taken 
from  me  not  an  hour  before,  and  said  lie  was  the 
robber."  And,  with  a  great  flourish,  the  pompous  and 
highly-perfumed  gentleman  threw  the  papers  on  the 
table. 

"  No,  I  was  there.  I  heard  it  all,  and  I  swear  he 
never  said  it,"  cried  Carrots,  springing  to  her  feet. 

"  Did  you  say  this  ?"  asked  the  captain,  kindly,  for 
he  preferred  "  '49's"  word  to  Gully's  oath. 

The  old  man  answered,  bowing  his  head,  "  And  I  say 
it  now." 

"  You  hear  him  ?"  shouted  Gully,  as  he  stood  in  line 
with  the  Yigilantes. 

There  was  a  silence  and  a  solemnity  that  were  painful. 
The  honest  and  kindly  captain  of  the  Yigilantes,  uncover 
ing  his  head,  solemnly  asked  :  "  What  shall  be  his  sen 
tence  ?' ' 

"  Death  !"   answered  the  first  Vigilante,  uncovering. 

"  Death  !"  answered  the  second,  solemnly. 

"  Death  !"  said  the  third,  with  bowed  head. 

"  Death  !"  sadly  murmured  the  fourth. 

''  I  vote  for  life,"  said  Gully,  as  the  captain  called 


VIGILANTES.  Ill 

for  his  vote,  "  but,  you  see,  my  voice  is  powerless.  The 
majority  rules  in  our  Order." 

"  I  am  satisfied,"  said  "  '49,"  calmly. 

"  No,  no,"  cried  Carrots,  appealing  to  the  VigilfttrtBS. 
"  lie  is  my  father,  my  mother,  my  all  !  If  you  take  his 
life,  you  will  kill  me." 

"  Now  just  (hie)  look  at  that  poor  gal,"  hiccoughed 
Billy.  "  Here  !  He's  some  account.  If  you  want  to 
hang  anybody  hang  me.  Nobody  cares  for  me.  (Ilic.) 
Total  wreck  !  Total  wreck  !" 

"  Take  this  man  away.  lie  ain't  worth  hanging," 
said  the  captain,  impatiently,  as  he  pushed  the  intrusive 
comet  on  in  its  orbit  about  the  camp. 

"  Pretty  low  down,  boys  ;  pretty  low  down  (hie)  ; 
ain't  worth  hangin'.  Ain't  worth  hangin'.  Total 
wreck  !  Total  wreck  !" 

"  But  I  tell  you  I  will  come  in  !  I  ain't  a  lawyer. 
No,  I  ain't.  I  am  a  witness.  Yes,  I  am  a  witness. " 
And,  fighting  the  obstinate  guard  with  his  umbrella, 
Snowe,  with  black  Sam  at  his  heels,  was  once  more  upon 
the  ground.  Charley  did  not  go  back  to  the  tunnel  to 
seek  for  the  mythical  heaps  of  gold,  but  found  the  old 
lawyer,  and  persuaded  him  to  return. 

"  Yes,"  said  Sam,  getting  behind  Snowc.  "  Yes, 
he's  a  witness.  lie  ain't  no  lawyer  dis  time,  he  ain't. 
He's  a  witness,  sah." 

"  Snowe,  by  the  seven  fiends  !  But  what  of  it  ?  I've 
got  the  girl.  I  can  afford  to  laugh  at  them  all  now  !" 
cried  Gully,  pale  as  a  ghost  and  with  quivering  lips, 
lie  had  been  too  busy  with  his  schemes  of  villainy  to 
perceive  the  newcomer. 

"Yes,  I'm  a  witness.  Keep  me  back  if  you  dare, 
and  I'll  send  the  last  mother's  son  of  you  to  State 
prison.  Yes,  I'll  give  you  law,  law,  till  you're  sick 


112  '49,    THE   GOLD-SEEKER   OF  THE   SIERRAS. 

of  it,"  sliouted  the  lawyer,  with  a  flourish  of  his  um 
brella. 

"  But  you  ain't  no  lawyer — shoo  !"  whispered  Sam  in 
his  ear. 

"  No,  no  !  I'm  a  witness."  He  crossed  to  the  table, 
took  out  his  glasses,  and  gazed  at  the  papers  with  a  long 
and  curious  gaze.  Then  sniffed  the  air,  took  oil  his 
glasses,  polished  the  crystals  with  his  coat-tail,  and  then, 
doubling  them  up,  took  in  a  long  breath. 

It  was  Gully  who  was  troubled  now. 

"  Great  heavens  !"  he  muttered,  as  he  advanced 
cautiously.  "  I  must  get  those  papers  from  that  table 
or  I  am  lost." 

"  No  !  I'm  a  witness  !"  shouted  Snowe  suddenly  in 
his  startled  ear.  "  Not  a  lawyer  ;  a  witness  !" 

"  If  you  will  let  me  have  this  property  of  mine — those 
papers,  1 — " 

"What  !  Torn  Gully,  the  villainous  Gully  !"  And 
Snowe  put  on  his  glasses  to  gaze. 

"  Yes,  Lucky  Tom  Gully.  Perhaps  you  will  know 
me  when  we  meet  next." 

"  Well,  I  think  I  shall.  But  as  I  rarely  visit  State 
prisons,  perhaps  we  will  not  meet  again  soon." 

Gully  disdained  to  answer,  but  made  an  effort  to  get 
the  papers. 

"lie  wants  his  papers,"  said  "'49."  "It  is  but 
right  he  gets  'em  back.  I  don't  deny  it,  sir.  It's  hard, 
just  as  we  are  about  to  strike  it  in  the  tunnel.  But,  sir, 
you're  a  lawyer  ;  take  the  tunnel,  and  see  that  Charley 
ain't  swindled  out  of  it,  sir." 

"  Now  you  just  hold  on,  <  '49  '  !"  cried  Carrots. 
"  Lawyers  is  smart.  And  I  hearn  tell  they  can  make 
black  things  look  white  sometimes.  You  jest  take 
them  papers,  Mister,  and  see  if  you  can't  save  '  '49.' 


VIGILANTES.  113 

Do,  do,  do  !  Them's  the  papers  that  makes  all  the 
trouble. " 

Snowe  looked  at  her  a  moment  through  his  glasses, 
and  then  clutched  up  the  papers,  as  if  a  bright  thought 
had  just  entered  his  brain. 

Suddenly  the  old  lawyer  stopped,  started,  puckered 
his  mouth,  and  gave  a  long,  low  whistle  of  surprise  and 
delight,  and  Gully  knew  that  at  last  the  tables  were 
turned,  that  the  game  was  lost.  He  snatched  up  his  hat, 
and  turned  to  go. 

"  AVhafs  your  hurry,  Store-clothes  ?"  cried  Carrots. 

"  Stop,  these  are  my  papers  !"  roared  Snowe. 
"  Gentlemen  of  the  jury  !  Gentlemen  of  the  villainous 
Vigilantes'  jury  !  Mine  !  My  papers  !  There's  my 
name  !  My  papers,  stolen  from  me  by  that  man." 

"  But  lawyers  are  tricksters  sometimes,"  said  the  cap 
tain,  after  stopping  Gully. 

"  We  lawyers  are  your  legislators  in  peace,  your 
generals  in  war,  and  your  gentlemen  always,"  and 
Snowe  bowed  profoundly. 

"  And  these  are  your  papers,  you  assert,  stolen  from 
you  by  him  ?" 

"  My  papers,  stolen  from  me  by  that  fragrant  and 
highly-perfumed  thief.  There  !  That's  my  signature. 
And  there  !  That's  his  odor.  Smell  him  ?" 

"  Yes,  and  it  was  I  who  knocked  him  down  in  the 
tunnel  yesterday,  and  took  those  papers  from  him," 
cried  Charley,  in  great  excitement. 

"  And  it  served  him  right,"  observed  the  captain, 
releasing  "'49." 

"  Oil,  "41)'!  '  '4-9  '  and  Charley  !"  cried  the  happy 
Carrots.  "  1  want  to  kiss  and  hug  you  both.  I'll  hug 
'  '49  '  and  kiss  Charley  !"  And  she  suited  the  action  to 
the  word. 


CHAPTER   XII. 

GNOME-LAND. 

In  the  earth  and  underground, 

Full  a  mile  or  more  below, 
Where  the  busy  gnomes  abound, 

"Where  their  strange  gold  houses  grow  : 

Where  the  smoky  gnomes  sit  grum, 
Rabbit-faced,  knock-knee'd,  and  low  ; 

Where,  the  days  may  never  come, 
Where  the  nights  may  never  go  : 

There  with  gleaming  rod  in  hand — 
Smitten  rock,  an  earthquake' s  shock  : 

A  stream  of  gold,  a  gladdened  land  ; 
A  Moses  and  the  desert  rock. 

Bur  the  end  was  not  yet,  by  any  means,  with  Gully,  or 
the  old  lawyer,  or  "'49."  Each  was  still  full  of  pur 
pose  and  endeavor.  The  old  lawyer  must  find  and  save 
his  heiress.  Gully  must  leave  Belle  to  herself,  and  save 
himself  in  sudden  and  precipitate  flight.  And  old 
"  '49"  must  strike  it  in  the  tunnel,  and  with  heaps  of 
gold  claim  his  son,  and  forthwith  seek  the  true  and 
tender  woman  that  ever  yet  leaned  her  face  in  her  palm 
and  waited,  weeping  there,  by  the  mantelpiece. 

"With  this  purpose,  "  '49"  set  out  the  moment  he  was 
released,  and  taking  Carrots  with  him,  once  more 

O  ' 

entered  the  tunnel  to  test  the  rotten  quartz  that. had  boon 
discovered  there. 

Charley  followed,  with   "  '49V   gun.      IIu  felt  that 


GNOME-LAND.  115 

there  was  still  trouble  in  the  air,  and  that  he  must  not  be 
unprepared. 

He  stopped  at  the  mouth  of  the  tunnel,  and  the  old 
man  went  on.  It  had  been  a  bright,  warm  morning,  and 
the  snow  was  melting  upon  the  mountain.  The  mouth 
of  the  tunnel  was  dripping  more  than  usual.  The  girl 
saw  this,  and  hesitated  to  enter.  Those  born  on  the 
border,  where  life  depends  on  caution,  are  wary  of  the 
elements,  and  are  exceeding  watchful.  Devine,  how 
ever,  noticed  nothing  unusual,  and  the  girl  was  silent. 
As  they  lingered  there,  waiting  for  they  knew  not  what, 
looking  askance,  looking  down,  starting  and  coining 
back,  saying  little  nothings,  getting  bothered  and  blush 
ing,  as  lovers  will,  a  rattlesnake  slid  down  the  steep, 
dripping  hillside,  rattling  as  he  ran,  as  though  fearing  a 
foe  that  no  venom  could  reach.  The  young  man  lifted 
his  gun  and  shot  the  reptile  through  the  head. 

Carrie  at  last,  as  if  playing  hide-and-seek,  and  laughing 
at  her  own  fears,  lowered  her  pretty  head,  and,  darting 
forward,  disappeared  in  the  dark  and  forbidding  tunnel, 
while  Charley  shouldered  his  gun  and  sauntered  away. 

She  reached  the  old  man.  lie  was  stripped  to  the 
waist,  lie  was  wild  with  excitement  anchdelight.  No, 
he  knew  it  was  there  !  It  could  not  escape  him  after  all 
those  years.  She  had  never  seen  him  so  strong  and  sup 
ple  in  her  life. 

He  caught  her  in  his  arms  and  sat  her  upon  a  pile  of 
quartz  in  a  corner,  and  then  bowed  down  at  her  feet  and 
called  her  a  little  queen.  He  said  he  had  set  her  on  a 
throne  of  gold. 

How  she  cried,  and  how  she  clung  to  his  neck  and 
kissed  him  there  ;  a  half  mile  away,  in  the  dark  and 
dripping  earth,  she  was  thinking  of  what  had  just  passed. 
He  was  thinking  of  what  was  to  come. 


11G  '49,    THE   GOLD-SEEKER   OF   THE   SIERRAS. 

Then  how  they  did  plan  and  build  their  castles  of 
gold  !  "Building  as  such  castles  are  always  built.  For 
not  a  particle  of  gold  had  as  yet  been  found. 

Charley'  should  know  nothing  about  it  !  Xo,  not  one 
word,  till  he  was  right  certain  he  loved  Carrots  almost 
to  death.  As  if  she  did  not  know  that  already  ! 

At  last  her  apron  was  spread  out  and  tilled  with 
quartz,  as  if  it  was  gold.  And  "  '49,"  taking  the 
candle  from  his  hat,  filled  the  old  hat,  as  a  boy  merrily 
fills  his  cap  with  golden  apples  ;  then,  taking  the  candle 
in  his  hand,  they  started  for  the  mouth  of  the  tunnel. 
They  had  to  stoop  over  as  they  groped  along.  Now  and 
then  the  old  man  would  stumble  under  his  load  and 
almost  fall.  Then  Carrie  would  banter  and  laugh 
merrily  at  his  tall  figure,  which  was  ill-suited  for  grop 
ing  along  with  a  great  load.  And  thus  stumbling,  fall 
ing,  laughing,  and  bantering  each  other  like  school-chil 
dren,  they  drew  near  the  mouth  of  the  tunnel. 

Carrie  missed  a  shaft  of  light,  so  familiar  to  them 
both,  as  they  turned  a  little  angle  in  the  tunnel.  13ut 
she  said  nothing.  She  still  tried  to  laugh,  as  she 
stumbled,  but  it  was  such  a  laugh  as  might  come  up  from 
a  grave.  She  hastily  staggered  on  a  few  yards  further. 
She  stopped  ;  then  she  hurried  on,  and  suddenly  found 
she  stood  almost  to  her  knees  in  the  cold,  muddy  water. 
The  girl  dropped  her  quartz  with  a  dull  splash,  and 
hastened  back  to  where  the  old  man  stood  holding  up 
the  candle  before  his  eyes  and  trembling  in  every  limb. 
The  water  had  followed  her  back,  and  was  rising  fast. 

She  took  the  candle,  which  was  about  to  fall  from  his 
trembling  hand.  They  looked  each  other  in  the  face, 
but  neither  spoke.  They  both  understood  too  well  the 
awful  truth. 

She  turned  and  waded  down  the  sloping  tunnel  till  she 


GNOME-LAND.  117 

stood  in  the  water  to  her  waist.  There  was  no  light,  no 
sound-1— nothing.  The  mountain-side  had  slid  down  and 
shut  them  up  in  a  living  tomb.  No  power  on  earth 
could  roll  away  the  stone.  She  felt  that  they  would 
never,  never  pass  through  the  mouth  of  that  tunnel  any 
more.  She  returned  to  "  '49"  and  took  him  by  the 
hand.  "Come!  come  back!"  she  said;  "see,  the 
water  is  rising  fast." 

"But  what  can  we  do  back— back  there?"  pleaded 
the  old  man,  piteously,  as  he  dropped  his  quartz  and 
mechanically  allowed  himself  to  be  led  back  deeper  into 
the  heart  of  the  mountain. 

She  did  not  answer.  "What,  indeed,  could  they  do 
back  there,  but  sit  down  arid  wait  an  hour,  and  then — 
die? 

Both  were  silent.  He  was  thinking  of  his  boy.  Oh, 
if  he  only  knew  !  If  he  only  knew  of  the  gold  that  was 
to  be  his  and  hers  ! 

She  was  thinking  of  the  green  trees  above  her,  as  she 
groped  back  ahead  of  the  water  that  slowly  crept  along 
the  trtnnel  after  her.  She  was  thinking  of  the  flowers — 
of  the  flowers  she  had  gathered  for  him.  She  was  think 
ing  of  the  bright  and  beautiful  sun. 

Oli,  but  to  see  the  sun  again  !  Oh,  but  to  look  up 
out  of  a  chasm  in  the  earth,  and  see  a  single  ray  of 
light  !  Oh,  but  to  be  a  bird  !  But  to  be  a  squirrel,  and 
leap  from  limb  to  limb  !  Now  that  the  world  was  shut 
out  from  her,  she  remembered  how  beautiful  it  was. 

She  thought  if  she  could  only  see  a  single  little  flower 
nodding  in  the  sun,  she  could  sit  down  and  love  it,  and 
love  it  tenderly  all  her  life. 

The  old  man  was  dazed — helpless.  She  led  him  back 
to  the  extreme  end,  and  there  they  crouched  down 
together  to  wait.  To  wait  for  what  ?  Death  ! 


118  '49,    THE   GOLD-SEEKER   OF   THE    SIERRAS. 

The  water  came,  touched  their  feet,  their  knees,  the  air 
escaping  through  the  crevices  in  the  rocks  above.  The 
candle  burned  to  its  socket,  and  dropped  through  the 
iron  ring  into  the  water  with  a  strange  cry,  as  if  it  died 
in  despair. 

The  tunnel  was  now  totally  dark.  The  girl  felt 
about,  and  drew  up  from  the  water  and  heaped  up  a  pile 
of  rocks  in  the  highest  corner.  She  placed  the  old  man 
on  this,  and  sat  at  his  feet.  The  man  put  out  his  long 
bony  arms,  wound  them  about  her,  and  drew  her  as  far 
as  he  could  from  out  the  water.  She  felt  the  cold  tide 
touch  her  bosom,  and  then  she  knew  that  all  would  soon 
be  over.  ' '  Maybe  we'd  better  try  to  pray.  Can  you  pray, 
'  '49 '  ?  Father,  can  you  pray  ?  Then  pray  for  Carrie, 
for  she  is  not  fit  to  die  ;"  and  the  girl's  heart,  for  tho 
first  time  in  all  her  life,  began  to  fail  her  as  she  clung  to 
the  old  man's  neck. 

"  Child  !  that  confession  is  your  prayer  for  us  both." 
And  the  two  drew  closer  together — closer  together  in 
death,  even,  than  they  had  been  in  life. 


CHAPTER  XI11. 

A    CLOUD    OF    DUST. 

Ay,  you  are  stricken  !  Yes,  I  know 

Your  wounds  are  deep.     Silent  you  bleed, 

Alone  and  mortally.     And  oh, 

Sweet  friend,  God  knows  you  need 
Compassion  while  you  fight  and  bleed. 

But  know,  dear,  stricken,  bowed-down  friend, 

The  worst  that  ever  may  befall 

Is  death,  which  happeneth  to  all, 
Dear,  honest,  high-born  death,  sweet  friend, 
While  God  stands  waiting  at  the  end. 

YOUNG  Devine  had  stood  a  moment  leaning  on  his  gun 
after  the  girl  darted  away  in  the  tunnel,  thinking  of  her, 
her  beauty,  her  simple  truth  and  sincerity,  loving  her 
with  all  his  heart.  Then  he  shouldered  his  empty 
weapon  and  started  to  the  cabin.  As  he  did  so,  there 
was  a  crash  !  He  ran  back,  and  his  blood  froze  with 
horror  as  an  avalanche  from  the  mountain  side  thundered 
down  and  covered  the  mouth  of  the  tunnel.  The  terror 
that  fell  upon  him  at  this  sight  was  beyond  words. 

The  young  man  almost  fell  in  a  swoon.  Then  remem 
bering  that  the  girl  was  buried  there,  he  tried  hard  to 
think  what  to  do.  Were  they  crushed  and  utterly  dead  ? 
Or  were  they  still  alive,  and  doomed  to  die  by  inches 
there  ?  He  looked  at  the  avalanche  before  him.  It  would 
take  hours  at  least  to  remove  it  and  reach  them. 

Suddenly  the  thought  of  the  other  side  flashed  through 


120  '49,    THE    GOLD-SEEKER    OF   THE    SIERRAS. 

his  brain  —  the  other  tunnel.  Tie  remembered  the 
strokes  of  the  pick  he  had  heard  so  often  from  that  other 
tunnel — the  tunnel  of  their  mortal  enemies.  He  dashed 
down  at  incredible  speed  and  around  the  point,  and 
reached  the  mouth  of  it. 

There  was  a  man  washing  out  a  panful  of  earth  down 
by  the  stream  in  the  edge  of  the  willows.  Devine 
shouted  with  all  his  might,  but  the  man  did  not  hear. 
This  was  drunken  old  Colonel  Billy.  The  terror  of  the 
Vigilantes  had  made  him  prodigiously  industrious.  lie 
had  resolved  to  reform.  So  he  had  not  time  to  hear  or 
look  up. 

Devine  turned  to  dash  into  the  heart  of  the  tunnel 
where  he  hoped  the  two  men,  Dosson  and  Emens,  were 
at  work. 

At  that  moment  these  two  men  were  coming  out. 
They  were  bowed  down,  loaded  down,  and  were  cursing 
each  other  and  quarrelling  fiercely.  He  set  his  gun 
against  the  wall  and  darted  past  them.  They  did  not 
see  him,  for  the  sunlight  dazed  them  ;  and  then  they 
were  too  deep  in  their  deadly  hate.  He  shouted  to  them 
as  he  ran  into  the  tunnel,  but  they  did  not  hear. 

They  were  loaded  down  with  gold  They  had  struck 
the  vein.  And  these  men  were  but  hardened  and 
embittered  by  their  good  fortune.  Each  wanted  it  all. 
One  hated  the  other  for  the  fact  that  the  other  should 
have  half  of  this  mountain  of  gold. 

As  Devine  groped  on,  deeper  and  deeper  into  the 
tunnel,  he  heard  a  pistol-shot  behind  him.  He  won 
dered  at  this.  Could  they  be  shooting  at  him  ?  Then 
he  rememered  that  they  were  in  a  deadly  quarrel. 
Possibly  they  were  at  death-grips. 

lie  soon  reached  the  end  of  the  tunnel,  for  it  was  not 
nearly  so  deep  and  long  and  crooked  as  the  other,  and 


A    CLOUD    OF    DUST.  121 

was  entranced  to  find  a  candle  there,  still  burning  in  the 
little  iron  ring  in  the  wall,  lie  caught  up  a  pick  with 
all  the  strength  and  fury  of  a  madman.  lie  dashed  his 
full  force  against  the  wall  before  him.  Water  was 
oozing  through  ;  and  under  his  feet  where  he  stood  were 
sheets  and  seams  of  shining  gold. 

Again  he  struck.  Again  and  again.  But  the  wall 
was  a  wall  of  stone.  It  had  no  heart.  It  had  stood 
there  thousands  of  years  amid  earthquake  and  tempest. 
Why  should  it  yield  to  his  prayers  ?  He  flung  down  the 
pick  and  hastened  out  in  utter  despair. 

At  the  mouth  of  the  tunnel  there  lay  Emeus,  dead. 
Dosson  was  gone.  The  man  who  had  been  so  listlessly 
working  at  the  edge  of  the  river  was  also  gone.  His 
great  Mexican  wooden  bowl  lay  floating  in  the  stream. 
Old  Colonel  Billy's  hat  lay  where  he  had  been  panning 
out.  Who  had  killed  Emens  ?  And  where  was  the 
murderer  hidden  ? 

The  dead  man  lay  there  with  a  bullet  through  his 
brain.  Heaps  of  gold  were  around  him.  His  eyes  were 
wide  open.  He  did  not  care  for  this  gold  now.  He  lay 
there  staring  helplessly  up  to  heaven. 

But  Devine  had  not  time  to  attend  to  the  dead.  The 
living  must  be  looked  after.  Leaving  the  gun  still  lean 
ing  against  the  wall,  he  hastened  back  again  and  around 
to  the  tunnel  of  old  "  '49,"  wild,  desperate.  He  hardly 
knew  what  he  did  now.  But  the  flinty  wall  before  him 
in  the  Dosson  tunnel  had  broken  his  heart  with  its  ob 
stinacy.  Breathless  he  came  to  the  mouth  of  their  own 
tunnel  where  he  had  last  seen  Carrie  enter.  Ah  !  for 
help  now  from  enemy  or  friend  !  But  no  human  being 
was  in  sight  or  hearing.  And  what  had  become  of  Col- 

o  o 

onel  Billy  ? 

Colonel  Billy,  who  had  been  seen  working  so  indus- 


122  '49,    THE   GOLD-SEEKER    OF   THE    SIERRAS. 

triously  on  the  edge  of  the  willows,  near  the  mouth  of 
the  tunnel,  had  not  heard  the  hot  quarrelling,  any  more 
than  he  had  heard  the  shout  of  young  Devine  for  help. 
He  was  working,  not  only  for  bread,  but  for  character, 
and — drink.  He  was  thirsty,  and  when  he  was  thirsty 
he  could  work  very  hard.  He  had  not  tasted  whiskey 
for  a  half  day.  lie  perhaps  had  not  tasted  bread  for  a 
whole  week.  Yet  that  was  not  such  a  hardship. 

But  he  did  hear  the  pistol-shot.  He  dropped  the 
great  wooden  Mexican  bowl  in  the  water,  and  sprang  up. 
He  wheeled  about,  peered  forth  from  the  willows,  and 
saw  a  man  reel,  fall,  and  another  bend  over  him.  lie 
saw  that  this  was  Dosson.  lie  saw,  also,  that  he  had  a 
smoking  pistol  in  his  hand. 

He  saw  Dosson  place  his  hand  on  the  fallen  man's 
heart,  then  rise  up,  look  around,  stoop,  and  pick  up  a  load 
of  something  from  the  ground. 

Then  the  cautious  old  colonel,  who  could  not  readily 
forget  the  lesson,  he  had  received,  hid  back  in  the 
willows,  while  the  other  stole  down  to  the  water,  hitched 
up  his  pants,  and  hastily  waded  across.  He  saw  this 
man  stoop,  look  up,  down,  right,  left,  and  then  enter 
the  mouth  of  an  old  deserted  tunnel  that  lay  there  gaping 
at  the  sinking  sun. 

The  man  had  dropped  something  when  he  stopped  to 
hitch  up  his  pants.  Timidly  the  old  colonel  stepped  out 
and  picked  it  up.  It  was  gold  !  A  shining  nugget  of 
gold.  The  earth  had  opened  her  stony  lips  and  uttered 
this.  It  was  as  a  new-born  child  to  the  half-demented 
old  miner.  He  hugged  it  to  his  heart,  and  started  in  a 
run  for  the  saloon. 

He  dashed,  all  breathless,  into  the  den.  Old  men, 
young  men,  miners,  loafers,  thieves,  lay  around,  loafed 
on  benches,  or  lounged  on  barrel-heads  and  kegs. 


A   CLOUD    OF   DUST.  123 

Colonel  Billy  was  out  of  breath.  He  could  not 
speak  ;  but  he  thundered  the  piece  of  gold,  down  on  the 
pine-board  counter,  and  pecked  at  his  bottle.  The  gold 
spoke  for  him.  Poor  fool  !  Gold  to  him  meant  drink. 

With  one  hand  the  amazed  barkeeper  handed  forth 
the  fullest  bottle,  and  with  the  other  covered  the  great 
glittering  specimen,  and  drew  it  in  toward  him. 

Colonel  Billy,  with  trembling  hands,  filled  the  tumbler 
to  the  brim,  and  drained  it  at  a  gulp.  The  boys  began 
to  wake  up.  The  barkeeper  lifted  the  piece  of  gold  in 
the  air.  It  was  like  a  rising  sun. 

They  were  awake  in  an  instant,  and  came  rushing 
forward. 

Colonel  Billy  still  held  on  to  the  neck  of  his  bottle. 
He  beckoned  to  the  boys,  and  as  he  filled  and  emptied 
his  glass  again,  they  ranged  alongside,  and  drank  with 
haste  and  precision. 

And  again  they  all  drank  together.  Then  they 
crowded  around.  They  pulled  the  fast-failing  colonel 
this  way  and  that,  and  asked  questions  wildly,  almost 
savagely,  as  they  held  on  to  him.  If  he  did  not  speak 
instantly,  they  would  tear  the  secret  from  his  throat. 
At  last  he  caught  his  breath,  and  blurted  out  : 

"  Gold  !  gold  !  Dosson  !  Dosson's  tunnel  !  Dead  ! 
dead  !  dead  !  And — and — " 

The  old  colonel  caught  at  the  corner  of  the  counter. 
Then  he  clutched  at  the  shoulder  of  a  red-shirted  miner 
as  he  passed.  But  no  one  would  stop  now.  The  tide 
passed  out  and  on  toward  the  tunnel,  leaving  only  the 
barkeeper  and  Colonel  Billy,  blind-drunk,  behind. 

The  brave  old  colonel  spun  about  for  a  second,  as  the 
barkeeper  stood  behind  the  counter  calmly  washing  his 
tumblers,  with  his  eye  fastened  to  the  nugget,  and  then 
clutching  wildly  in  the  air,  fell  back  in  a  dark  corner 


IX-i  '49,    THE    GOLD-SEEKER   OF   THE    SIERRAS. 

between  tM7o  barrels,  and  lay  there  like  a  man  that  was 
dead. 

The  half-drunken  mob  reached  the  mouth  of  Dosson's 
tunnel,  breathless  and  wild  with  excitement.  There  lay 
the  dead  man.  There  stood  the  gun.  "  It's  '  '49's,'  : 
they  cried.  It  was  his  gun.  And  they  had  seen  his 
partner,  young  Devine,  with  that  very  gun  on  his 
shoulder  that  very  hour.  Yes,  a  dozen  of  them  had  seen 
him  with  that  gun  on  his  shoulder  as  he  and  Carrots 
went  up  toward  old  "  '49V  tunnel  J  And  as  he  came 
back,  too. 

They  took  the  dead  man  with  them,  and  the  gun. 
There  was  something  terrible  in  the  anger  of  this  half- 
drunken  mob,  as  they  moved  on  up  past  the  saloon, 
after  again  drinking  deeply  at  the  expense  of  Colonel 
Billy  and  the  nugget,  up  to  the  cabin  of  t(  '49,"  bearing 
the  dead  man  along. 

"  They  knew  it  would  come  to  this  !  They  knew  this 
feud  would  end  in  blood  !  And  then  to  shoot  the  man 
when  he  had  struck  it,  too  !" 

"And  then  to  lie  at  the  mouth  of  the  tunnel,  and 
shoot  him  as  he  came  out  from  his  work." 

"  To  shoot  him  when  he  was  blinded  by  the  sunlight 
and  could  not  see  to  fight."  These  and  like  sentiments 
of  old-fashioned  justice  were  heard  on  every  side  from  the 
mob. 

It  was  hard.  This  young  man  Devine  had  made  few 
friends.  lie  was  a  manly  man,  much  like  his  father  in 
this. 

There  are  men  who  go  about  the  world  making 
friends,  on  purpose  to  use  them. 

There  are  men  who  hoard  up  friends  as  a  miser  hoards 
up  money.  There  are  two  kinds  of  meanness.  One  is 
a  money  meanness,  the  other  is  a  character  meanness. 


A   CLOUD    OF   DUST.  135 

There  are  men  very  generous  with  their  money,  who  are 
as  stingy  with  reputation  as  it  is  possible  to  be.  Stop 
and  think  of  this,  and  draw  a  line  carefully  between  the 
man  who  makes  friends  to  use  and  the  man  who  makes 
friends  from  his  very  manhood,  as  a  rich  field  grows  a 
golden  harvest. 

As  the  mob  passed  up  to  "  '49V  cabin,  Mississip  fell 
in  and  cheered  it  on.  Now  she  would  have  her  re 
venge  !  Now  that  meddler  would  get  his  reward.  She 
chuckled  to  herself  as  she  thought  of  the  gold,  the  ricli 
mine  which  would  be  all  Dosson's  and  hers,  now  that 
Emens  was  dead.  Emens  dead  !  She  wanted  to  hug 
the  young  man  for  killing  him.  But  this  young  man 
must  die,  too.  She  would  make  a  clean  sweep  of  all. 
And  if  only  that  girl  could  be  brought  into  it  likewise  ! 
How  she  hated  her  !  This  girl  was  growing  more  beau 
tiful  every  day.  She  was  more  beautiful  than  Belle, 
and  she  hated  her  as  never  before. 

The  mob  laid  down  the  dead  man  at  the  door,  and  fell 
back  a  little,  in  conference.  Then  it  was  that  the 
strongest  and  boldest  minds  in  that  rude  assembly  came 
to  the  surface  and  stood  at  the  head.  They  organized  in 
one  moment. 

As  young  Devine  had  come  again  to  the  mouth  of 
"  '49V  tunnel,  this  living  tomb,  he  perceived  that  the 
water  was  oozing,  spouting,  and  bursting,  and  that  the 
mass  of  earth  was  moving.  It  was  perilous  to  approach 
alone,  so  he  turned  and  hastened  back  for  help.  As  he 
approached  the  cabin  he  found  himself  a  prisoner. 

A  tall,  bearded  man  lifted  his  slouch  hat,  and  said  to 
Devine  : 

"  You  are  accused  of  murdering  this  man.  You  are 
to  be  tried  for  your  life  ;  tried  now.  This  is  our  wit 
ness,"  pointing  to  the  dead.  "  Where  is  yours  ?" 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

OUT    OF    THE   DAKKNESS. 

A  little  bird  flew  quickly  out, 
And,  singing,  circled  sharp  about, 

Then  back,  deep  hiding  in  its  tree  ; 
And  there,  as  if  the  whole  world  heard, 
The  sweet-voiced,  fluttered  little  bird 

Began  its  morning  minstrelsy. 

FIRE  is  not  nearly  so  terrible  an  element  for  good  or 
ill  as  water.  This  every  old  miner  knows  too  well. 
The  pent-up  water  drives  everything  before  it.  Let  it 
once  accumulate  its  forces  and  even  the-  mountain 
must  yield. 

When  the  flood  in  "'49V  tunnel  had  reached  the 
girl's  neck,  and  while  she  was  bravely  holding  up  her 
old  friend  to  the  last,  she  suddenly  felt  the  waters  begin 
to  recede.  Then  there  was  a  burst  as  of  thunder,  and, 
like  an  outgoing  tide,  the  flood  turned,  and  the  two,  with 
prayers  of  gratitude  too  deep  and  holy  for  words,  rose 
up  and  groped  their  way  to  the  blessed  light,  the  birds, 
the  flowers,  the  far,  fair  sky — God. 

"  '49''  still  held  in  his  hand  one  little  fragment  of 
quartz  as  they  slowly  staggered  on  toward  the  cabin,  drip 
ping  and  drying  in  the  hot  overhanging  sun.  lie  lifted 
it  up,  looked  at  it  long  and  eagerly.  Then,  with  a  deep 
sigh,  he  threw  it  away.  Jso  sign  of  gold  yet.  lie  must 
still  wait  a  while  before  he  takes  his  boy  to  his  heart. 

Busy  with  his  own  plans  for  discovering  and  saving 


OUT   OP   THE    DAItKNESS.  127 

his  heiress,  and  knowing  he  would  be  detained  an  in 
definite  time  at  Sierra,  the  shrewd  old  lawyer,  Snowe, 
after  the  trial  of  "  '40,"  had  left  Charley  to  his  own 
pursuits,  and  had  sent  for  the  youth's  mother  to  come  to 
Sierra  that  evening.  It  was  now  clear  to  the  Vigilantes 
that  he  was  indeed  a  lawyer,  so  he  was  not  permitted  to 
appear  for  the  young  man  or  to  say  one  word  in  his 
defence.  He  was  allowed,  however,  to  tell  him  that  his 
mother  was  coming,  and  would  soon  be  at  his  side. 

When  the  chief  of  the  Vigilantes  had  laid  his  hand  on 
the  young  man's  shoulder  and  told  him  he  must  be  tried 
for  murder,  Devine  did  not  speak.     His  face  was  lifted 
to  the  mountain  before  him.     Far  up  beyond,  and  around 
the  brow  of  a  pine-topped  peak,  curved  and  corkscrewed 
the  stage  road.     There  was  a  cloud  of  dust  dimly  visible 
in  the  sunset.     The  stage  was  descending  to  the  camp. 
"  Have  you  any  witnesses  ?" 
The  young  man  started,  then  answered  : 
"  AVhy,  everybody  knows  I  would  not  do  this.     There 
is  my  partner,  '  '49  '  ;  he  has  been  with  me  all  the  time 
since  I  came  here." 

"  Has  he  been  with  you  to-day  ?  Every  minute  ?" 
"  Yes,  every  second  !"  shouted  "  '49,"  who  was  lost 
in  bewilderment.  "  '49  "  was  a  hero — a  man  who  could 
die  for  another.  True,  not  of  that  loftiest  race  of 
heroes — men  who  deem  a  lie  worse  than  death.  Letting 
go  the  doorpost,  and  limping  over  to  Charley,  he  said  to 
himself,  "  You  don't  get  anything  against  Charley  out  of 
me,  Mr.  Vigilantes.  Not  it'  I  know  myself,  you  don't  ! 
Arid  I've  been  here  since  '49." 

"Well,  AVC  seldom  swear  respectable  men  in  our 
courts.  But,  as  you  are  his  partner,  1  think  I  will  swear 
you.  Take  oil'  your  hat,  and  hold  up  your  right  hand. 
!Now  be  sworn." 


128  '49,    THE   GOLD-SEEKER   OF   THE   SIERRAS. 

The  old  man  took  off  his  hat,  held  his  two  hands 
high  in  the  air,  and  began,  eagerly. 

"  Well,  he  stopped  with  me  here  all  yesterday  ;  lie 
slept  with  me  all  last  night  ;  he  has  been  with  me  all  to 
day.  There  !" 

"  But  will  you  be  sworn  ?" 

"  I've  got  nothing  more  to  swear  to.  I  didn't  hear 
him  say  nothin'  at  all — not  one  word  about  killin'  any 
body.'' 

"  But  will  you  be  sworn  ?" 

"  'Ive  got  nothin'  more  to  swear  to,  I  tell  you.  I 
swore  to  every  tiling  1  know." 

"  Will  you  be  sworn  ?"  repeated  the  Vigilante. 

"  Yes  !  He  worked  in  the  tunnel  yesterday.  He 
slept  with  me  last  night.  He  ate  breakfast  with  me  this 
mornin'.  He  has  been  with  me  all  day  to-day. 
There  !" 

"  But  will  you  swear  to  that  ?  Can  anybody  swear  to 
that?" 

"  If  anybody  swears  to  that  will  that  save  him  ?" 

"  Yes.  If  anybody  can  swear  to  that  it  will  save 
him,"  was  the  solemn  reply. 

"Well,  1  can!"  cried  Carrots,  eagerly;  and  lifting 
her  face,  with  clasped  hands,  the  girl  cried  :  "  By  the 
good  God,  I  swear  Charley  slept  with  '  '49  '  last  night ! 
He  stayed  with  him  yesterday.  He  has  been  with  him 
all  day,  and— " 

"  Carrie  !  Carrie  !  it  is  not  true  !  You  will  go  to  the 
bad  world  for  this  !"  protested  young  Devine,  in  a  hoarse 
whisper. 

' '  Well,  then,  I  dare  to  go  to  the  bad  world  !' '  retorted 
the  frenzied  girl,  as  she  sprang  up  and  seized  his  hand 
and  attempted  to  lead  him  back  into  the  cabin  away  from 
the  crowd, 


OUT    OF   THE    DAliKNESS.  129 

"  There  !  That's  all  right  !  It's  all  right  now.  I 
swore  to  all  they  wanted,  I  did,"  she  cried. 

But  why  detail  the  sad  conclusion.  From  the  first 
Devine  was  doomed. 

It  was  of  no  avail.     The  man  was  sentenced  to  die. 

As  the  Vigilantes  stood  with  uncovered  heads  while  the 
leader  pronounced  the  ghastly  death -sentence,  Colonel 
Snowe  came  up  the  trail,  a  lady  on  his  arm.  This  lady 
was  travel- worn  and  covered  with  dust.  The  Vigilantes, 
rough  and  immovable  as  they  were,  did  not  refuse  to 
allow  a  lady  to  approach.  They  were  silent  and  respect 
ful  as  the  woman  entered  their  lines.  Behind  the, 
colonel  and  lady  lingered  the  old  negro,  with  head  as 
white  as  wool.  The  young  man  did  not  see  the  party. 
He  was  still  looking  the  other  way  ;  looking  at  the 
mountains  ;  looking  for  his  mother — that  mother  who 
was  to  arrive  but  to  kiss  his  lips  ere  they  would  be  sealed 
in  death. 

Who  has  not  seen  a  child  waiting  for  mother  to  come  ? 
Nothing  but  mother  will  satisfy  it.  All  the  gold,  all 
the  good  things  of  earth — a  king's  praise,  the  smiles  of  a 
queen,  diamonds,  laces,  and  lands — all  are  as  nothing 
compared  to  one  word,  one  look  from  her — from  mother  ; 
and  though  plain,  and  haggard  from  toil,  pale  from 
hunger,  weak  and  withered — God  bless  the  mothers, 
every  one  ! 

But  here  was  a  man — a  strong  man — -waiting  for 
mother.  He  was  sentenced  to  die.  But  somehow  his 
old  child-feeling  came  over  him  now.  He  wanted  to 
see  mother.  He  waited  for  mother  ;  he  wanted  only 
mother. 

The  old  red-faced  monster  that  hovered  on  the  edge 
of  the  mob,  inciting  it,  waiting  for  Dosson,  wondering 
where  he  was  all  the  time,  expecting  him  every  moment, 


130  '49,    THE   GOLU-SEEKEE   OF  THE   SIERRAS. 

so  that  she  might  share  the  joy  of  revenge  with  him — 
this  creature  pushed  her  way  up  to  the  strangers,  and, 
with  grinning  and  leers,  told  them  in  brief,  and  after  a 
barbarous  fashion,  the  bitter  and  awful  chronicle. 

The  distracted  mother,  with  a  wild  shriek,  caught  her 
son  in  her  arms.  Then,  as  old  "  '49"  shrunk  back, 
helpless,  half -crazed  from  the  unendurable  excitements 
and  scenes  of  the  day,  the  mother  turned  to  the  leader 
of  the  Yigilantes,  who  stood  with  his  hat  in  his  hand, 
his  head  bowed  before  her. 

"It  is  my  boy,"  began  the  woman,  holding  her  dar 
ling's  head  to  her  breast,  and  then  putting  it  back,  kissing 
him,  and  looking  him  in  the  face.  "  It  is — it  is  my 
boy,  my  Charley." 

11  Mother,"  gasped  the  youth,  "  you  find  me  ashamed 
to  lift  my  head.  1  tried  to  get  on,  mother.  I  did 
reform.  I  went  to  work  ;  I  worked  night  and  day. 
Mother,  I  did  reform  ;  but  all — all  was  against  me  !" 

"  "Why  did  you  do  this  thing  ?"  said  Snowe,  bitterly, 
while  "'49,' '  from  his  retreat  back  on  the  edge  of  the  mob, 
craned  his  neck,  and  listened  as  only  such  a  sorrowing 
man  could.  He  felt  assured  that  his  son  had  killed  this 
man  ;  and  he  felt,  too,  that  the  dead  man  deserved 
death. 

"  Why  did  you  do  this  thing  ?"  urged  Snowe. 

"  I  swear  before  Heaven  I  did  not.  I  am  as  innocent 
as  my  dear  mother  here,"  replied  Charley,  his  head 
proudly  erect. 

"  1  know  you  arc  innocent  !  I  know  you  are  inno 
cent.  You  shall  not  swear  to  me  that  you  are  innocent. 
I  know  it.  Lay  your  head  on  my  breast  and  rest,  my 
tired,  heart-broken  boy.  They  shall  not  touch  you  now 
— no  more  now  !  Ko  more,  no  more,  no  more  !"  wailed 
the  agonized  mother. 


OUT   OF   THE    DARKNESS.  131 

"  Oh,  mother,  1  am  so  glad  you  have  come  !  But 
see  !  What  will  they  do  with  me  ?  Oh,  mother,  I  have 
waited  and  waited  for  you  !  But  see  !  They  want 
me  !' '  cried  Devine. 

"  Nothing — nothing  shall  harm  you.  My  boy,  all  will 
1)0  well  !  But  now  come  away.  You  look  so  wretched  ! 
You  must  have  some  clothes  ;  you  must  rest,  and  then 
you  will  tell  me  all  about  these  great  mountains,  and  we 
will  go  home  together,  and  we  will  have  a  splendid  time 
together,  Charley. " 

"  1  tried  to  make  money,  mother,  so  as  to  come  back 
to  you,  and  take  care  of  you,"  he  said,  tremblingly. 

"  Yes — yes  ;  come  along,  Charley,  and  never  mind 
the  money.  Let  us  get  out  of  these  mountains,  my  dear, 
dear  boy.  Come  along.  Never  mind.  Leave  every 
thing.  If  I  only  have  you,  I  am  happy."  And  the 
poor  mother  tried  to  lead  him  away. 

"  He  must  remain,"  protested  the  captain,  mildly. 

The  woman  held  her  boy  to  her  breast,  and  pressed 
his  head  down  to  her  shoulder,  and  stroked  his  hair  ten 
derly  as  she  said  : 

"  But,  sir,  you  know  he  is  my  boy.  lie  is  my  son — 
my  only  son.  Why,  sir,  1  have  come  all  the  way  to  Cali 
fornia,  and  into  these  wild  mountains,  to  find  him,  to  see 
him,  sir,  and  now— 

"  But  he  is  accused  of  crime  ;  and,  madam,  I  am  very 
sorry,  but  he  must  remain." 

"  But,  sir — but,  sir —  Stand  close  to  me,  Charley, 
close  to  your  mother,  Charley —  You  know,  sir,  I  for 
give  him.  lie  may  have  been  a  little  bit  wild,  sir,  but 
he  will  not  be  so  anymore.  1  am  his  mother  ;  he  is  my 
eon— my  only  child,  sir.  Oh,  he  is  so  good  and  so  true  ! 
lie  was  always  so  kind  to  his  mother  ;  you  would  have 
loved  him  for  that,  I  know.  Sir,  do  not  keep  us  here. 


132  '49,    THE   GOLD-SEEKER   OF  THE  SIERRAS. 

You  see  lie  is  BO  weak — lie  is  hungry  ;  lie  is  faint  and 
famishing.     Come,  Charley,  come  ;  come  away." 
"  Madam,  he  cannot  come." 
"  And  why  can  he  not  come  with  his  mother  ?" 
"  He  is  convicted  of  a  crime,  and  must  die." 


CHAPTER  XV. 

PUKE    GOLD. 

What  though  on  peril's  front  you  stand? 

What  though  through  lone  and  lonely  ways, 
With  dusty  feet,  with  horny  hand, 

You  toil  unfriended  all  the  days, 

And  die  at  last  of  man's  dispraise  ? 

Would  you  have  chosen  ease,  and  so 
Have  shunned  the  fight  ?     God  honored  you 

With  trust  of  weighty  work.     And  oh  ! 
The  Captain  of  the  Heavens  knew 
His  trusted  soldier  would  prove  true. 

THE  Vigilantes  make  short  work  of  what  they  take  in 
hand.  A  few  hours  for  prayer,  farewells,  and  that  is 
all  they  allow  to  those  whom  they  condemn  to  death. 

Devine  sat  in  the  cabin  alone,  under  sentence  of 
death,  while  the  guard  at  the  door  paraded  solemnly  up 
and  down.  The  young  man  arose  and  walked  to  and 
fro,  and  muttered  to  himself  : 

"  And  so  1  must  die  !  Oh,  it  is  fearful,  and  1  inno 
cent — innocent  !  Poor  mother  !  Poor,  broken-hearted 
mother  !  That  last  farewell- — it  will  kill  her,"  and  the 
wretched  youth  groaned  in  mental  agony.  "  1  am  to  he 
shot — shot  to  death  at  dawn,  and  these  are  my  grave- 
clothes,"  said  the  man,  bitterly,  as  he  stood  before  the 
habiliments  of  death — a  black  cloak  and  hat. 

The  Vigilantes  had  again  turned  this  old  cabin  into  a 
prison.  They  had  taken  up  the  dead  man's  body  from 
before  the  door,  and  laid  it  in  a  grave.  They  had,  in- 


134  '49,   THE   GOLD-SEEKER   OF  THE   SIERRAS. 

deed,  dug  two  graves — one  for  the  dead,  one  for  the 
living. 

o 

There  was  a  parley  at  the  cabin  door,  and  then  the 
old  miner,  "  '49,"  bowed,  trembling,  crushed,  came 
tottering  in. 

"  My  boy,  my  poor  lone  boy,"  he  began  ;  "  you  must 
jiot  die  now.  We  will  strike  it  in  the  tunnel.  Gold  ! 
gold  !  Heaps  of  gold  !  Enough  for  your  poor  mother  ! 
Enough  for  us  all  !  Enough  for  the  world  !" 

"  Poor  old  man  !"  thought  Charley,  tears  in  his  eyes. 
"  1  knew  that  that  tunnel  would  turn  his  head  at  last. 
"When  I  am  laid  below  the  sod,  he,  the  last  of  the  grand  old 
men  of  the  Sierras,  will  wander  about  the  land,  a  tramp, 
a  homeless,  helpless  old  man,  still  talking  of  that  tunnel." 

"  If  anything  happens  to  me,  and  if  you — if  you  do 
get  out  of  this,  promise  me  that  you  will  go  back  to  the 
tunnel  once  more,"  pleaded  the  old  man.  "  Promise 
me  that  you  will  go  back  there  yourself,  though  it  be 
years  and  years.  For  there,  in  the  right-hand  corner — 
in  the  right-hand  corner  of  the  tunnel — 

"  Please,  my  dear  old  partner,  be  calm,"  gently  inter 
posed  Devine.  "  My  dear  old  friend,  this  trouble  has 
shaken  your  mind.  But  be  calm,  in  these  my  last 
moments.  To-morrow — to-morrow  you  can  talk  of  your 
tunnel.  Ah  !  as  the  old  song  ran,  '  We  will  all  reform 
to-morrow  ! '  Then  he  said  to  himself  ;  "  And  where 
will  I  be  to-morrow  ?" 

"  But,"  persisted  '"49,"  "I  tell  you  we  will  strike 
it  !  It's  no  time  to  die  now." 

He  had  not  yet  heard  of  the  mass  of  gold  discovered 
on  his  lode,  only  a  few  feet  away  from  where  his  pick  lay 
rusting  in  the  tunnel.  Who  to  tell  him  of  it?  Califor- 
nians  knew  how  to  keep  such  secrets.  If  he  had  only 
known  of  it,  how  quickly  he  would  have  clasped  wife 


PURE   GOLD.  135 

and  boy  to  his  bosom,  and  laughed  at  the  claims  of  others 
to  his  gold. 

But  the  boy  was  not  thinking  of  gold.  "  And  Carrie  ? 
Where  is  Carrie  ?"  he  said.  "  I  am  to  die.  I  am  to  be 
shot  to  death  at  dawn.  Why  could  she  not  have  come  to. 
me  ?  She,  of  all,  to  stay  away  at  such  a  time  as  this." 

A  sob  close  behind  u  '49,"  and  he  folded  the  loving 
girl  in  his  arms. 

"  I  gathered  them  in  the  dark,  and  in  the  moonlight 
on  the  mountain,"  sobbed  the  poor  child,  handing  him 
a  heap  of  flowers.  "  I  thought  you  would  like  to  have 
some,  you,  who  love  flowers  so.  Why,  you  look 
awful  nice,  don't  you  ?  But  I  wouldn't  have  put  them 
on  ;  I  should  have  died  ragged  and  wretched,  like — like 
your  poor,  ragged,  wretched,  little  Carrie." 

Taking  her  apron  from  her  eyes,  she  saw  the  black 
cloak  and  hat. 

"  Why,  what  are  these  for  ?"  she  cried. 

"  To  die  in,"  answered  the  young  man,  bitterly. 

"To  die  in?  Oh,  here  in  these  pure  white  moun 
tains,  what  is  so  hard  as  man  ?"  and  she  bowed  her  head 
and  wept  bitterly. 

It  was  already  growing  gray  in  the  east.  The  hour  of 
execution  had  come.  There  was  a  trampling  of  feet  and 
a  sound  of  voices  at  the  door.  Then  some  men  with 
guns  entered,  one  of  whom  informed  the  prisoner  that 
his  last  hour  had  arrived.  The  leader  of  the  party 
turned  to  the  girl  and  said  : 

"  You  must  come  away.  We  are  ordered  to  bring 
you  away  at  once.  I  will  allow  you  one  minute  only. " 

The  girl  still  refused  to  go.  She  threw  herself  into 
the  young  man's  arms,  and,  in  a  whirlwind  of  grief, 
shrieked  :  "  You  shall  not  die  !  '  '49,'  save  him  !  Save 
him  !  I  will  not  go  if  you  do  not  promise  to  save  him  ! 


136  '49,    THE    GOLD-SEEKEli   OF  THE    SIEKKAS. 

Promise  me  !     Say  you  will  save  him  !     Say  you  will — 
you  will.      Say  you  will  save  him  or  die  !" 

A  moment's  pause. 

"  I — I — 1  will  save  him — or  die  !"  said  the  old  man, 
solemnly. 

"  You  have  promised." 

"1  have  promised,"  the  words  coming  slowly  and 
solemnly  as  the  sound  of  a  death-bell. 

"  You  will  keep  that  promise  ?" 

11  I  will  keep  that  promise." 

"  Come,  come,"  urged  the  guard,  dragging  her  away. 

"  Ah,  my  dear  old  partner  !  Think  no  more  about  the 
promise,"  cried  Devine.  "  You  are  absolved  from  a 
promise  made  as  that  was  made." 

"  If  ever  you  do  get  out  of  this,  go  back  to  the 
tunnel  ;  in  the  right-hand  corner  of  the  main  drift — ' ' 

"  My  dear  old  friend,  forget  that  tunnel  for  a 
moment.  Do  you  know  that  1  am  to  die  in  less  than 
half  an  hour  ?  Let  us  talk  a  little  of  the  better  world, 
for  I  am  now  done — utterly  done — with  this — 

11  But  there,  in  the  right-hand  corner — 

Young  Devine  took  the  old  man's  hand  tenderly  as 
he  sat  on  the  edge  of  the  bed,  and,  looking  in  his  face, 
said  :  "  My  friend,  stand  by  my  side  but  a  few  moments 
more.  I  feel  the  sands  crumbling  from  under  my  feet 
as  1  MTalk  by  the  ocean  of  eternity.  ~No — no,  my  friend, 
do  not  feel  so  sadly,  do  not  weep.  'Tis  but  a  puff  of 
smoke,  and  all  is  over.  The  sun  will  rise  to-morrow  just 
the  same.  The  world  will  take  its  daily  round  of  rest  or 
strife,  just  as  before.  But  I — hut  1  will  take  no  part  or 
place  in  anything  that  is.  For  I — I  shall  rest  — rest — rest. ' ' 

"  Oh,  that  I  could  die  for  you  !  You  !  So  young  ! 
So  full  of  life,  and  health,  and  heart,  and  hope," 
groaned  "  '40." 


PUKE   GOLD.  137 

"  No  ;  consider  what  I  sliall  escape.  I  shall  escape  all 
the  ills  and  heartaches  that  lie  between  this  and  old  age. 
And  it  will  not  be  long  before  you  all  will  follow  me. 
In  a  little  time,  one  by  one,  you  will  seek  some  quiet 
resting-place  where  other  poor  weary  mortals  rest  ; 
and  there,  grouped  together  on  some  hill-top,  you  will 
rest,  caravans  of  the  dead,  waiting  the  great  awakening. 
See,  my  old  friend,  we  are  all — all  under  a  sentence  of 
death.  I  am  to  be  shot  at  daylight  ;  you  have  a  few 
days  of  reprieve." 

The  old  man  began  once  more.  "  But  it  is  hard  to 
have  to  die  now  when  we  must  strike  it.  In  the 
furtherest  right-hand  corner  of  the  tunnel,  Charley — " 

"  Poor  "49  '  !"  cried  Charley.  "  Twenty-five  years 
of  disappointment,  and  then  this  trouble  !  Ilis  head  is 
turned  utterly.  When  I  am  dead,  he  will  wander  around 
California,  talking  of  his  tunnel.  They  will  set  dogs  on 
him — the  new,  rich  people.  They  will  set  dogs  on  this 
grand  old  relic  of  '40.  But  it  won't  last  long." 

Notwithstanding  all  the  bloodthirstiness  and  brutality 
of  the  Vigilantes — for  I  am  not  one  of  those  who  deify 
mobs  under  this  name  or  any  other — they  displayed  a 
sort  of  dignity  and  decorum  in  all  that  they  did.  They 
invariably  required  a  man's  real  name.  They  were 
savagely  in  earnest.  They  always  wanted  to  hang  a  man 
under  his  real  name.  They  had  asked  for  and  had  the 
name  of  this  3'oung  man,  Charles  Devine.  They  had 
written  it  clown,  and  when  the  guard  came  to  take  him 
to  the  place  of  execution,  the  captain  took  the  book  from 
his  belt,  opened  it,  held  it  up  and  out  toward  the  eastern 
gray  dawn,  and,  with  some  effort,  read  softly  a  name. 
Then  arranging  his  men  on  cither  bide  of  the  open  cabin 
door,  he  again  slowly  read  the  name.  Ifc  looked  as  if  this 
officer  was  glad  of  any  excuse  for  delay.  He  stood  wait- 


138  '49,    THE   OOLP-SEEKER   OF  THE   SIERRAS. 

ing  the  full  dawn  now.  ITo  waited  so  long  at  the  door 
that  the  young  man  lay  down  to  rest  and  meditate  on  the 
bunk  back  in  the  corner.  Soon  all  was  still. 

At  last  he  peered  in  at  the  door  which  he  had  pushed 
open.  It  was  still  very  dark  inside.  He  saw  a  figure 
standing  ready.  It  was  muffled  in  the  black  cloak,  with 
a  black  hat  drawn  low  over  the  face. 

The  little  calico  curtains  back  in  the  corner  were 
closed.  The  dog  had  been  taken  away  by  the  Vigilantes, 
for  fear,  at  the  last  moment,  he  might  put  in  some  sort 
of  protest,  and  there  was  nothing  to  be  seen  in  the  dark 
little  cabin  save  this  one  silent  figure  standing  there  ready. 

"  Charles  De vine  !" 

"  Here  !" 

And  with  a  h'rm  step  the  muffled  figure  marched 
forth,  took  its  place  between  the  lines  of  Vigilantes,  and 
in  the  dim  dawn  moved  hastily  and  silently  away  to  the 

place  of  execution. 

*  *  *  *  -x-  * 

A  fresh-dug  grave  among  the  green  pines  on  the 
hillside.  A  rude  coffin  beside  the  grave.  The  crowd  is 
held  back,  and  will  be  held  back  by  the  Vigilantes  till 
all  is  over.  Then  they  may  come,  or  pnss  by  and  look 
upon  the  dead  man's  face.  The  shrill,  harsh  voice  of 
that  monstrous  woman,  Mississip,  can  be  heard,  now  and 
then,  in  the  gray  dawn,  calling  for  Dosson.  Her  laugh 
— that  wicked  laugh  of  hers,  as  she  gloats  over  her  re 
venge — can  be  heard,  and  she  talks  to  the  mob  that  is 

o  * 

waiting  for  the  crack  of  the  rifles  before  they  can  pass  tiro 
guard  to  see  the  dead  man  in  the  coffin.  The  far  peaks 
are  tipped  with  gold.  It  is  dawn  in  the  valley,  and  yet 
not  daylight.  There  is  light,  but  it  is  as  if  a  sheet  of  sil 
ver  shone  in  your  eyes.  Nature  is  not  yet  wide  awake. 
The  guard  enter  the  clearing,  a  man  in  black  between 


PUliE   GOLD.  139 

them.  The  man  falls  on  his  knees  by  the  coffin.  Then 
he  rises  up,  takes  a  seat  on  the  coffin,  folds  his  arms 
above  his  heart,  and  signals  that  lie  is  ready  to  die. 

A  line  of  men  armed  with  rifles  is  drawn  up  before  him. 
The  captain  of  the  Vigilantes  stands  at  the  head  of  the 
line.  There  is  not  even  the  chirp  of  a  bird.  It  is  some 
thing  like  that  fearful  silence  that  precedes  earthquakes. 

At  last  the  captain  takes  out  the  book,  and  reads  the 
sentence  and  the  name.  Then  arranging  his  men  in  line 
he  steps  back  and  says  : 

"  Gentlemen  of  the  Yigilantes,  you  are  now  to  enforce 
the  sentence  of  death.  You  will  aim  directly  at  the 
heart.  All  of  your  guns  are  loaded  except  one.  One 
only  is  not  loaded  with  ball  ;  but  no  man  knows  which 
one  that  is.  You  will  make  ready  !" 

All  these  executioners  are  in  black  masks.  All  are 
silent  as  death.  The  captain  turns  to  the  prisoner  : 

"  Charles  Devine,  you  were  arrested  for  murder,  con 
victed  of  murder,  and  are  now  about  to  die  for  that 
crime.  Invoke  your  God." 

The  man  on  the  coffin  only  bows  his  head. 

11  Make  ready,  men  !" 

The  men  lift  their  guns,  and  there  is  an  ominous  and 
terror-striking  click. 

"  Blindfold  the  prisoner  !" 

A  man  advances  with  a  handkerchief,  and  bending 
over  the  prisoner  a  second,  he  springs  back,  exclaiming  : 

"  It  is  not  Charles  Devine  !" 

"Not  Charles  Devine?" 

"No.     It  is  '  '49'  !" 

The  man  on  the  coffin  struggles  to  his  feet,  and  cries  : 

"  It  is  Charles  Devine  !  I  tell  you  it  is  Charles 
Devine!  Fire!  1  tell  you  I  am  Charles  Devine  !  I've 
been  here  since  '49,  and  I  guess  I  ought  to  know.  Fire." 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

THE    HEIRESS. 

The  Past  has  gone  as  the  Present  will  go, 

And  the  Future  we  know  not  of  ; 
But  ever  the  Present  seems  filled  with  woe, 

And  ever  the  Past  with  love. 

THE  captain  of  the  Vigilantes  was  sadly  troubled.  He 
at  first  rejoiced  at  what  had  happened.  But  then  the 
big,  weighty  word  "  duty"  was  there  confronting  him. 

"  Bring  the  real  prisoner  here  at  once  to  execution  !" 
lie  gloomily  said. 

The  guard  hastened  to  obey. 

They  found  the  young  man  sleeping  like  a  babe,  as  if 
no  trouble  had  ever  come  to  him.  He  did  not  know 
what  had  happened,  but  rose  up  and  went  with  the 
guard  to  death,  as  if  they  had  now  come  for  him  for  the 
first  time. 

Colonel  Billy  had  been  forgotten.  And  what  was 
there  about  him  worth  remembering  ? 

The  rougher  element  of  the  camp  had  missed  their 
leader,  and  they  kept  wondering  what  had  become  of 
Dosson.  Had  he  iled  for  fear  that  this  desperate 
stranger  would  murder  him,  too  ? 

Let  us  return  to  the  bar-room,  where  Colonel  Billy 
had  "  set  up"  the  drinks. 

The  barkeeper,  like  all  good  barkeepers,  had  kept 
bravely  at  his  post.  In  the  mines  the  saloon  is  the 
wheel-house  —the  barkeeper  is  tlio  captain  at  the  wheel. 


THE    HEIRESS.  141 

Just  before  dawn  this  barkeeper  was  startled  from  his 
sleep  between  two  blankets  behind  the  counter  by  cries 
that  came  from  the  dark  amonir  the  barrels. 

o 

"  Oh,  oh,  oh,  such  a  dream  !  Oh,  my  head  !  my 
head  !  my  head  !  Oh,  such  a  dream  !" 

The  barkeeper  sprang  up,  and  holding  a  candle  under 
the  red  nose  of  the  man,  as  he  tried  to  raise  himself  be 
tween  the  barrels,  shook  him  by  the  shoulder  till  the  old 
teeth  rattled  in  their  gums. 

"  Billy,  Billy,  Billy  !     You  old  idiot." 

"  Oh,  such  a  bloody  dream  !  Dosson  shoots  Emens, 
gits  the  gold,  scoots  across,  hides  in  the  old  tunnel,  and 
I  gits  a  nugget  with  blood  on  it,  and—" 

"  Dosson  shoots  Emens  !  Get  up,  you  fool  !  A  man 
will  be  shot  for  your  drunkenness  !  Get  up,  or  I'll  brain 
you  with  the  candlestick." 

The  barkeeper  loved  Belle.  Therefore,  if  for  no 
other  reason,  he  hated  Dosson  to  the  death.  He  poured 
a  pint  of  rum  down  the  hoarse,  raw  throat  of  Colonel 
Billy,  and  throwing  on  his  clothes,  and  clutching  two 
pistols,  he  dragged  the  colonel  after  him.  There  was  no 
time  to  be  lost — the  bar,  for  once,  must  take  care  of  itself. 

In  a  few  moments  they  reached  the  mouth  of  the  old 
abandoned  tunnel.  All  was  dark  and  silent.  But  by 
the  dim  dawn  they  could  see  broken  weeds  underfoot. 
Some  one  had  entered  it.  Old  Colonel  Billy  was 
made  wide  awake  by  the  rum,  and  now,  comprehending 
the  situation,  proved  invaluable. 

The  pair  entered  the  tunnel,  one  holding  a  candle,  the 
other  two  cocked  pistols.  This  was  a  dangerous  and  a 
stupid  thing  to  do.  They  should  have  laid  siege  at  the 
mouth  of  the  tunnel  and  waited,  Yet  now  there  was  no 
time  to  wait. 

Tuniinir    round     a    bi:^     boulder    tliat    lay  near    the 


142  '49,    THE    GOLD-SEEKER    OF   THE    SIERRAS. 

entrance,  they  beheld  Dosson  asleep  against  the  granite 
wall.  The  man  was  helpless  as  the  dead  man  he  had 
left  lying  down  yonder  at  the  mouth  of  the  tunnel. 

The  murderer  opened  his  eyes.  lie  looked  into  the 
ugly  muzzles  of  two  lifted  pistols.  lie,  even  in  his 
sleep,  clutched  and  held  a  pistol,  with  its  one  empty 
chamber,  as  he  waited  for  the  last  man  to  disappear  from 
the  trail  before  he  ventured  to  escape. 

But  he  had  been  overtaken  by  sleep.  Kow  all  was 
over.  What  a  persistent  and  all-pursuing  officer  is  sleep  ! 

He  begged  for  his  life.  He  told  of  the  gold.  He 
would  give  them  each  one  quarter,  and  they  would  be 
the  richest  men  in  the  Sierras. 

His  captors  shook  their  heads.  lie  wrould  give  them 
two  thirds — all  ! 

The  two  men,  at  a  run,  marched  this  strong  and 
desperate  murderer  between  them  toward  the  place  of 
execution.  With  pointed  pistols,  they  pushed  in  upon 
the  Vigilantes  just  as  young  De-vine  was  brought  up 
from  the  cabin  where  he  slept. 

The  Vigilantes  were  first  awe-stricken,  then  furious. 

Had  not  they  themselves  almost  been  murderers  ? 
They  now  treated  young  Devine  as  tenderly  as  if  he  had 
been  a  child. 

Against  the  red-handed  ruffian  now  before  them,  their 
rage,  though  smothered,  was  fearful.  As  the  captain 
pointed  at  the  coffin,  the  open  grave,  Dosson's  knees 
began  to  knock  together.  He  saw  a  yawning  grave  wait 
ing  to  receive  him. 

The  Vigilantes  exchanged  glances.  They  understood 
each  other's  thoughts,  and  Dosson  understood  them,  too. 
He  took  his  place  on  the  coffin.  Clear,  sharp,  and 
deadly  the  rifles  rang  out. 

The   crowd    now   came    pressing    on — the    distracted 


THE    HEIRESS.  143 

mother  to  receive  the  dead  body  of  her  boy,  the  monster 
Mississip  to  look  down  upon  his  dead  face  and  gloat  over 
her  revenge  and  the  agony  of  the  girl  Carrots.  This 
miserable  creature  came  on  ahead  of  all.  But  the  cap 
tain,  in  mercy,  turned  her  aside. 

Once  more  the  loving  mother  held  Charley,  her  boy, 
to  her  heart.  Every  man  uncovered  his  head.  Some 
turned  aside,  and  pretended  that  the  new-risen  sun  hurt 
their  old  eyes,  causing  them  to  water. 

Old  "  '49,"  wild  and  half  crazed,  suddenly  shrieked  : 

"  I  tell  you,  we  have  struck  it  !  " 

Old  Colonel  Billy  had  elbowed  his  way  to  the  old  man, 
and  had  forced  a  gleaming  piece  of  gold  in  his  hand, 
whispering  the  truth  in  his  ear. 

"  Heaps  of  gold  !"  said  "  '49."  "  Ha,  ha  !  Gold 
enough  to  pave  the  streets  of  a  city  !  See  there — and 
there — and  there  !  Tons  of  it  !  Ha,  ha  !  Tons  of  it 
as  rich  as  that  !  What  did  I  tell  you  ?  1  knew  it  was 
there— I  knew  it  was  there  for  twenty-live  years  !  And 
now  '  '49  '  is  a  millionaire,  and  them  twTo  burglars  that 
•were  breaking  into  his  mine  are  dead — dead,  as  they 
deserved  !  And  you,  Charley,  my  boy,  you  are  my  pard. 
Tons  of  it— tons  of  it,  just  like  that  !"  shouted  "  '49." 

All  at  once  the  old  man  seemed  to  begin  to  grow  calm 
and  to  understand.  He  passed  his  hand  across  his  brow, 
and  seemed  to  see  a  new  light.  He  approached  close  to 
his  son  and  looked  strangely  into  his  face.  Suddenly 
his  eyes  brightened  with  intelligence  and  love.  Leaning 
forward  and  grasping  a  hand  of  the  son  and  the  mother 
in  his,  he  sang,  in  a  wild,  strange,  and  far-away  voice  : 

"  Then  sing  the  song  we  loved,  love, 
When  all  life  seemed  one  song  ; 
For  life  is  none  too  long,  love, 
Ah,  love  is  none  too  long." 


144  '49,    THE   GOLD-SEEKER   OF   TIIE    SIEKttAS. 

"  I  am  your  fatlicr,"  lie  cried  to  the  youth.  "I  am  your 
husband  !"  he  cried  to  the  tearful  woman.  "  Come  !" 

Of  a  verity,  the  new-risen  sun  or  something  was  hurt 
ing  the  eyes  of  the  Vigilantes  as  the  crowd  moved  away 
down  the  hill  toward  the  tavern,  for  they  drew  their 
sleeves  across  their  eyes,  and  blinked  and  stumbled  as 
they  walked. 

Belle  came  curiously  along,  and  stood  in  the  crowd 
that  lingered  at  the  cabin  door.  She  and  Carrie  both 
seemed  frightened  and  out  of  place. 

Charley  felt  a  little  hand  pulling  at  his  sleeve,  and  he 
heard  a  little  timid  voice  say,  "  Good-by,  Charley." 

"What  do  you  say,  Carrie  ?"  and  he  turned  to  the 
child. 

"I  am  so  glad  you  are  rich.  And  dear,  good  old 
''49,'  too.  You  are  both  all  right  now,"  and  she 
turned  to  go.  "And  so,  good-by  !  good-by  !"  But 
her  heart  was  breaking. 

"  Good-by,  '  '49  '—father  !  Good-by  !  I  am  as  glad 
— yes,  I  am  as  glad  that  you  have  struck  it  at  last  as  if  I 
had  found  a  new  flower.  Good-by  !  good-by  !" 

"Why,  Carrie!  Carrie!  where  are  you  going?" 
asked  Charley. 

"  I'm  going  away — I'm  going  far  away." 

"  What  are  you  talking  of  ?  You  are  not  going  away 
now.  Why,  if  you  leave  me,  there  will  be  no  sunlight 
in  the  mountains  any  more,"  he  said. 

"  I'm  afraid  of  your  mother,  and  him,  that  crabbed 
old  lawyer,  and  all  of  them.  Then  what  can  I  be  to  you 
now  ?" 

"  You  can  bo  mv  wife  ?  you,  Carrie — you,  and  you 
only." 

"  Struck  it  !  Struck  it,  Charley  !  You  have  struck 
pure  gold  !"  says  old  "  '49,"  cheerily. 


THE    HEIRESS.  145 

"  All  !  that  1  have,  father." 

The  mother  took  the  sun-browned  little  waif  of  the 
mountains  tenderly  by  the  hand.  But  the  girl,  realizing 
the  gulf  that  yawned  between  them,  was  again  turning 
away. 

"Stay  yet  one  moment,"  said  the  lawyer;  "your 
work  may  be  done,  but  my  work  is  only  now  begun. 
The  heiress  ?  Charley,  you  must  assist  me  here." 

"  Well,  there's  little  to  be  said  or  done.  There  is 
your  heiress,"  and  he  pointed  to  Belle. 

"  True,  sir,  true.  Yet  I  must  now  prove  to  myself,  to 
the  law,  to  the  world,  that  this  is  really  she.  Call  black 
Sam  ;  let  him  approach  slowly,  and  sing  his  old  planta 
tion  songs.  Sir,  I  .never  made  a  mistake  or  lost  a  case. 
Come  here,"  added  the  lawyer  to  Belle.  "Please 
stand  here.  Now  yon  shall  hear  a  little  song — a  sweet 
melody,  that  will  remind  you  of  other  days. ' ' 

Sam  leaned  forward  on  the  edge  of  the  crowd,  tapped 
his  foot  on  the  ground,  slapped  his  hand  on  his  knee, 
and  sang  in  a  low,  sweet  voice  : 

"  Oh,  hallelujalem  !  Oh,  hallelujalem  ! 
Oh,  honey,  won't  you  come, 
Oh,  honey,  won't  you  come, 

To  de  bussoin  ob  de  Lord? 
When  de  world's  all  on  fire, 
"When  de  world's  all  on  fire, 
To  do  bussoni  ob  de  Lord?  " 

Carrie  stood  at  one  side  with  Charley.  As  the  old 
black  man's  song  began,  she  started,  listened,  stepped 
forward,  and  was  in  an  ecstasy  of  quiet  delight. 

Belle  remained  by  Snowc. 

"  She  doesn't  notice  it  yet,  but  I  never  made  a  mis 
take,"  said  the  old  lawyer,  rubbing  his  hands.  "  Sam," 
lie  added,  "  come  a  little  nearer,  where  you  can  see  her 


14G  '49,    THE   GOLD-SEEKER   OF  THE   SIERRAS. 

— there  !  Look  at  her.  And  now  you  shall  sing  the 
other  cradle- song — the  song  you  sang  together  when  she 
was  a  child." 

"All  right,  massa,"  said  Sam;  "here  1  is;  but  I 
don't  like  dose  eyes.  Can't  help  it,  massa  ;  but  1  don't 
like  dose  eyes  !" 

"  Shut  up  this  instant.  I  tell  you  it  is  she.  It  is— 
it's  got  to  be!  Now,  my  little  lady,"  said  Snowe  to 
Belle,  "  listen.  We  are  going  to  have  a  little  song 
that  you  will  like,  I  know — that  you  will  like  and 
remember." 

Then,  turning  to  the  spectators,  who  held  their  breath 
in  expectation  : 

"  Take  notice,  every  one  of  you.  You  shall  all  see. 
Now,  Sam,  the  other  little  song." 

Sam  sang  a  line  or  two,  and  then  paused. 

"  You  do — you  do  like  it  ?  You  do — you  do  remem 
ber  it,  don't  you  ?"  cried  Snowe,  eagerly,  to  Belle. 

"No,  I  don't.  1  don't  remember  it  at  all,  and  I 
don't  like  it  a  bit,"  was  the  sad  girl's  reply.  Her  once 
proud  head  was  held  low  and  abashed,  and  she  could 
take  little  interest  even  in  things  of  the  greatest  concern 
now.  She  had  really  loved  Gully.  But  he  had  not  only 
.been  expelled  from  the  Order  of  Vigilantes,  but  had  been 
banished  forever. 

Again  Sam  sang,  and  Carrie  leaned  forward  and 
looked  in  his  face,  still  keeping  a  little  distance  off. 

"  That  voice — that  dusky  face  !  It  is — it  is  the  dream 
of  the  desert  !"  cried  she,  clapping  her  hands. 

Sam  stopped,  looked  around,  and  began  another  stanza. 
Carrie  came  nearer.  Sam  stopped.  Carrie  took  up  the 
song,  and  sang  a  stanza.  She  joined  in  and  began  to 
sing.  They  approached,  singing  together,  and  as  the 
song  ended  she  sprang  into  his  arms. 


THE    HEIRESS.  147 

"  My  chile — my  chile  !  Dis  is  de  chile — dis  is  de 
chile  !" 

Then  he  tore  away  her  sleeve,  and  pointed  to  the  scar 
on  her  arm. 

"  Dur — dar  !     Dat  is  de  Mormon's  bullet-mark  !" 

"  Eureka  !  Found — found  !"  shouted  the  old  lawyer. 
"  I  have  found  my  heiress  !  I  told  you  so  !  I  never  made 
a  mistake,  and  1  never  lost  a  case  !  This  is  the  heiress, 
at  last  !"  and  he  triumphantly  took  Carrie  by  the  hand. 

"And  am  I  really  somebody  in  particular?"  asked 
Carrie,  in  wonder. 

"You  arc  what  you  have  always  been — a  little 
princess  in  disguise,"  said  Charley,  tenderly. 

W  -A-  *  *  *  * 

In  the  background,  in  the  dusk  of  life,  as  it  were,  silent, 
grateful,  stood  an  old  man,  a  subject  of  awe  and  rever 
ence.  The  woman  he  left  leaning  on  the  mantelpiece, 
thousands  of  miles  away,  is  now,  in  the  dusk  of  life,  lean 
ing  lovingly  on  his  arm.  It  is  as  a  new  marriage  cove 
nant — the  eternal  peaks  of  the  Sierras  are  the  great  high 
priests  in  their  robes  of  white  at  God's  altar. 

And  strange,  pitiful,  piping  old  Colonel  Billy  is  so  alone 
now.  His  "  pardner"  is  going  away.  He  sees  him  al 
ready  in  some  great  fashionable  hotel  far  away,  a  tight 
collar  on  his  great  hairy  neck,  a  breastplate  of  white  starch 
on  his  bosom,  and  ti.^ht  boots  on  his  feet  of  freedom — 

J  O 

splendor  all  about ;  the  little  girl  in  high-heeled  boots, 
silks,  and  a  thousand  pretty  things  to  make  her  person 
lovely.  He  feels  hurt,  humbled;  for  "'49"  had  once 
f-aid,  "  Tvre  will  go  back  together  and  buy  the  Aster 
House,  Billy,  bar  and  all  ;  "  and  now  he  has  forgotten  it. 
Colonel  Billy  coughs,  spits  cotton,  looks  at  the  woman 
on  old  "  '49' s  "  arm,  and  feels  jealous. 

The  old  hero  of  the  tunnel  hears  the  comrade  of  his 


148  '49,  THE   GOLD-SEEKER   OF  THE   SIERRAS. 

early  days,  sees  him  spitting  cotton,  and  comprehends. 
Laying  his  left  hand  on  the  shoulder  of  the  "total 
wreck,"  he  says,  "Billy,  you're  in  with  us."  Colonel 
Billy  jerks  off  his  hat,  and  then,  as  the  occasion  is  op 
portune,  proceeds  to  make  a  speech.  And  this  is  his 
speech  : 

"  Boys,  boys,  we  old  fellers  of  the  days  of  Forty-nine 
are  about  pegged  out — not  many  more  of  us  left — but 
when  we're  all  dead,  write  this  :  They  were  rough, 
maybe  ;  but  they  did  their  level  best. " 

THE    END. 


ARCHIBALD     MALMAISON. 

A  New  Novel.     By  JULIAN  HAWTHORNE.     Price,  paper,  15   cts.;  eloth,  extra 
paper,  75  cents. 


INDEPENDENT,  N.  Y.  "  Mr.  Julian  Hawthorne  can  choose  no  better  com 
pliment  upon  his  new  romance,  '  ARCHIBALD  MALMAISON,'  than  the  assurance 
that  he  has  at  last  put  iorth  a  story  which  reads  as  if  the  manuscript,  written 
in  his  father's  indecipherable  handwriting  and  signed  «  Nathaniel  Haw 
thorne,'  had  lain  shut  into  desk  for  twenty-five  years,  to  be  only  just  now 
pulled  out  and  printed.  It  is  a  masterful  romance  ;  short,  compressed,  terri 
bly  dramatic  in  its  important  situations,  based  upon  a  psychologic  idea  as 
weird  and  susceptible  of  startling  treatment  as  possible.  It  is  a  book  to  be 
read  through  in  two  hours,  but  to  dwell  in  the  memory  forever.  It  so  cleverly 
surpasses  '  Garth'  or  '  Brcssant  in  its  sympathy  with  the  Kyle  of  the  elder 
Hawthorne  that  it  must  remain  unique  among  Mr.  Julian  Hawthorne's  works 
—  until  he  exceeds  it.  Theemplo\  ment  of  the  central  theme  and  the  literary 
conduct  of  the  plot  is  nearly  beyond  criticism.  The  frightful  ciimax  breaks 
upon  the  perception  of  the  reader  with  surprise  that  he  did  not  foresee  it  ; 
another  tribute  on  his  part  to  the  unconventional  ity  which  is  one  of  the  many 
touches  of  eminent  art  in  Mr.  Hawthorne's  tale." 

R.  H.  STODDARD,  IN  NEW  YORK  MAIL  AND  EXPRESS.  "The  cli 
max  is  so  terrible,  as  the  London  Times  h..s  pointed  out,  and  so  dramatic  in 
its  intensity,  that  it  is  impossible  to  class  it  with  any  situation  of  modern  fic 
tion.  .  .  Mr.  Hawthorne  is  clcaily  and  easily  the  first  of  living  romancers." 

THE  CONTINENT,  N.  Y.  "The  most  noteworthy  story  Mr.  Julian  Haw 
thorne  has  ever  proJuced.  .  .  No  wilder  romance  has  ever  been  imagined. 
.  .  A  brilliant  and  intensely  powerful  wor«.  .  •  It  is  certain  that  such 
power  sets  the  author  at  the  head  of  modern  romancers." 

THE  LONDON  TIMES.  "  After  perusal  of  this  weird,  fantastic  tale  (Arch- 
bald  Malmaison),  it  must  be  admitted  that  upon  the  shoulders  of  Julian 
Hawthorne  has  descended  in  no  small  degree  the  mantle  of  his  more  illustri 
ous  father.  The  climax  is  so  terril.le,  and  so  dramatic  mils  intensity,  that  it 
is  impossible  to  class  it  with  any  situation  of  modern  fiction.  There  is  much 
psychological  ingcnuityshown  in  some  of  the  more  subt.e  touches  that  lend 
an  air  of  reality  to  this  wild  romance." 

THE  LONDON  GLOBE.  "  'Archibald  Malmaison,'  is  one  of  the  most  daring 
attempts  to  set  the  wildest  fancy  masquerading  in  the  cloak  of  science,  which 
has  ever,  perhaps,  been  made.  Mr.  Hawthorne  has  managed  to  combine  the 
-  almost  perfect  construction  of  a  typical  French  novelist,  with  a  more  than 
typically  German  power  of  conception.  Genius  is  here  of  a  kind  more  artistic 
ally  self-governed  than  Hoffman's,  and  less  obviously  self-conscious  than 
Poe's.  A  strange  sort  of  jesting  humor  gives  piquancy  to  us  gnmne>s." 

THE  ACADEMY.  "  Mr.  Hawthorne  has  a  more  powerful  imagination  than 
any  contemporary  writer  of  fictien.  He  has  the  very  uncommon  gilt  of  taking 
hold  of  the  reader's  attention  at  once,  and  the  still  more  uncommon  gift  of 
maintaining  his  grasp  when  it  is  fixed." 

THE  PEARL-SHELL  NECKLACE  —PRINCE  tiA- 

WIFE. 


Two  Novels.  By  JULIAN  HAWTHORNB,  one  volume,  i2mo,  paper,  15  cents; 
cloth,  extra  paper,  75  cents.  [In  press.] 

CONTEMPORARY  REVIEW.  "The  'Pearl-Shell  Neckla---  '  is  a  story  of 
permanent  value,  and  stands  quite  alone  for  subtle  blending  of  individual  and 
general  human  interest,  poetic  and  psychologic  suggestion,  and  rare  humor. 

SPECTATOR  "  '  The  Pearl-She'l  Necklace'  wherever  found,  would  stamp 
its  author  as  a  man  of  genius.  Kven  the  elder  Hawthorne  never  produced 
more  weird  effects  within  anything  like  the  same  compass.  And  yet  there  is 
absolutely  no  imitation." 

FUNK  &  WAGN  ALLS,  Publishers,  10  &  12  Dey  St.,  New  York. 


HIMSELF  .AGAIN. 

A   New  Novel.      By  J.  C.  GOLDSMITH,       12100,  paper,   05  cts.;    cloth,  extra 

uaoer.  ii.oo. 


COMMENTS  OF  THE  PRESS. 

THE  BOSTON  GLOBE.  "  Its  peculiar  qualities  are  its  delineation  of  eccen 
tric  character  which  is  notab.y  free  and  bold,  and  its  familiarity  with  many 
kinds  of  present  American  life  and  manners,  and  its  original,  realistic  treat 
ment.  .  .  Beneath  the  sprightly  dash  with  which  the  story  is  outlined  and 
filled,  there  is  conscious  strong  power.  It  is  finely  written,  and  of  decided 
merit." 

THE  EVENING  POST,  HARTFORD.  "  Unlike  most  novels,  the  first  chap 
ters  of  this  remarkable  story  are  the  weakest.  But  let  the  reader  persevere  and 
he  will  find  opened  to  him  a  wonderful  world  of  novel  and  interesting  charac 
ters,  a  valuab  e  and  unique  philosophy,  and  an  almost  unsurpassed  background 
of  American  cay  and  country  scenery,  both  land  and  water." 

BOSTON  ADVERTISER.  "The  writer  displays  more  than  average  insight 
into  the  workings  of  human  nature,  and  the  naturalness  of  his  character  draw- 
i.ig  is  no  doubt  the  secret  of  the  special  attiactiou  that  lies  in  the  boox." 

CLEVELAND  LEADER.  "  This  is  a  purely  American  novel.  .  .  and  one 
ot  the  best  we  have  seen.  It  is  so  vivid  in  its  description  of  localities  and 
personages,  that  the  reader  hardly  doubts  that  all  is  real.  And  in  accom 
plishing  this  the  author  achieves  a  kind  ot  charm  that  is  as  delightful  as  it  is 
hard  to  define." 


RUTHERFORD. 

A  New  Novel.    By  EDGAR  FAWCETT.   Author  rf  "An  Ambitious  Wsman," 

"A  Gentleman  pf  Leisure,"  "A  Hopeless  Case,"  "  Tinkling  (.ymbais," 

etc.   i2ir.o,  paper,  25  cts;  cloth,  extra  pa^er,  £1.00. 

MR.  FA  WCETT  h  \s  of  late  been  steadily  and  rapidly  advancing  toward  the 
fjremost  place  amon^  American  novelists.  He  deals  with  ph  ses  of  society 
that  require  the  utmost  skill ;  but  his  quick  insight  into  character,  his  ready 
sympathies,  and  his  conscientious  literary  art,  have  proved  more  than  equal  to 
tie  tn*ks  he  has  undertaken.  It  is  certain  that  many  of  the  be:it  critics  are 
watcliing  his  course  with  high  anticipations.  In  'Rutherford,  his  latest 
work,  neither  they  nor  the  pu'u.ic  will  be  disappointed.  It  is  a  novel  of  New 
York  society,  and  rarely  has  character  been  portrayed  with  more  de'icate  but 
effective  touches  than  in  the  case  of  some  of  these  representatives  of  Knicker 
bocker  caste.  The  story  is  by  no  means  confined  to  them  however,  but  is  en 
riched  to  a  very  gre.it  degree  by  characters  taken  from  lower  social  plnncs. 
Nothing  the  author  has  ever  done,  perhaps,  surpasses  his  characterization  of 
*  Pansy  '  one  of  the  two  sisters  who  have  fallen  from  affluence  to  poverty. 
Through  them  he  arouses  the  deepest  sympathies,  and  shows  a  dramatic 
power  that  is  full  of  promise.  It  is  needless,  of  course,  to  commend  the  liter 
ary  finish  of  Mr.  Fawcett's  style.  It  is  fast  approaching  perfection. 

FUNK  &  WAGNALLS,  Publishers,  10  &  12  Dey  St.,  New  York. 


THE  FORTUNES  OF  RACHEL. 
A  New  Novel.    By  EDWARD  EVHKETT  HALE.    121110,  paper,  250.;  cloth, 


CHRISTIAN  UNION  N.  Y  '  Probably  no  American  hr.s  a  more  devoted 
constituency  of  readers  than  Mr  Kdward  Everett  Hale,  and  to  all  these  his 
1  ae.'-tstoiy,  'The  Fortunes  of  Rachel,  will  bring  genuine  pleasure.  Mr.  Hale 
is  emphatically  a  natural  writer;  he  loves  to  interpret  common  things  and  to 
deal  with  average  persons.  He  does  this  with  such  insight,  with  such  noble 
conception  of  lite  and  of  his  work,  that  he  discovers  that  profound  interest 
which  belongs  to  the  humblest  as  truly  as  to  the  most  brilliant  forms  of  life. 
.  '1  his  story  is  a  thoroughly  American  novel,  full  of  incident,  rich  in 

rtrong  traits  of  character,  and  full  of  stimulating  thought;  it  is  wholesome  and 
elevating." 

BOSTON  JOURNAL.  "  The  virtue  of  the  book  is  the  healthful,  encouraging, 
kindly  spirit  which  pervades  it,  and  which  will  help  one  to  battle  with  adverse 
circumstances,  as,  indeed,  all  Mr.  Hale's  stories  have  helped." 

NEW  YORK  JOURNAL  OF  COMMERCE.  "A  purely  American  story, 
original  all  through,  and  Rachel  is  one  of  the  pleasantest  and  most  satisfactory 
ofherome=.  She  is  a  girl  of  the  soil,  unspoiled  by  foreign  travels  and  con 
ventionalities.  After  surfeiting  on  romances  whose  scenes  are  laid  abroad,  it 
is  delightful  to  come  across  a  healthy  home  product  like  tliis." 

BOSTON  GLOBE.  "  Every  one  knows  that  Mr.  Hale  is  the  prince  of  story 
tellers." 


MUMU,  AND  THE  DIAR  Y  OF  A  SUPERFLUOUS  MAN. 

Two  powerful  novels  descriptive  of  serf  and  upper-class  life  in  Russia. 
By  IVAN  TURGENIEFF.     izmo,  paper,  150.;  cloth,  extra  paper,  j=,c. 


N.  Y.  TRIBUNE.  "  His  characters  are  vital;  they  suffer  with  a  pathos  that 
irresistibly  touches  the  reader  to  sympathy.  Those  who  would  write  in  the 
same  vein  get  merely  his  admirable  manner,  full  of  reserve,  of  self-restraint, 
of  joyless  patience;  but  while  under  this  surface  with  Turgemefflie  throbbing 
arteries  and  quivering  flesh,  his  imitators  offer  us  nothing  more  than  lay  figures 
in  whose  fortunes  it  is  impossible  to  take  any  lively  interest.^  'I  hey  represent 
before  us  only  poor  phases  of  modern  society,  while  Turgenieff  has  explained 
to  us  a  nation  ard  shown  the  playof  emotions  that  are  as  old  as  the  world  and 
as  new  as  the  hour  in  which  they  are  born." 

LITERARY  WORLD,  Boston,  " These  two  stories  .  .  are  unquestion 
ably  to  be  ranked  among  their  author's  masterpieces.  .  .  'Mumu'  will 
bear  a  great  amount  of  SLudy  ;  it  marks  out  a  whole  method  in  fiction." 

THE  MANHATTAN.  "One  of  the  most  powerful  and  touching  pictures  of 
blave-li;c  iii  i.il  literature." 

LirPINCOTTS  MAGAZINE,  Phila.  "There  are  some  ha'f  dozen  of  Tur- 
genieffs  short  stories  ab-olutely  perfect  each  in  its  way,  but  none,  perhaps, 
quite  so  exquisitely  as  Murnu  '  shows  the  great  artist's  power  to  transfigure  to 
our  eyes  the  tenderness,  passion,  asonies  which  lie  beyond  speech  and  almost 
beyond  sign,  in  the  silent  heart  i.f  a  strong,  simple  man." 

CRITIC  AND  GOOD  LITERATURE,  N.  Y.  "  How  little  material  genius 
requires  for  making  a  '  good  thinu.'  TurgeniefPs  '  Mumu  '  is  only  the  sketch 
of  a  deaf  mute  ?.nd  a  dog,  but  how  bcauufully  told  1  There  are  touches  of 
infinite  gentleness  as  well  as  of  skill." 

FUNK   &  WAGNALLS,  Publishers,  10  &  12  Dey  St.,  New  York. 


PUn LIC A  TfOVS  OF  FUNK  &  WAGNAU.S,  XEW  YORK. 


TALKS  TO  FARMERS. 

BY  CHARLES  H.  SPURGEON. 

SOO  pp.,  12mo,  Cloth,  $1.00. 

This  is  the  last,  and  ono  of  the  best,  of  the  \ronderful  productions 
of  the  fertile  pen  an  1  prolific  brain  of  Mr.  Spurgeon.  It  consists  of  a 
series  of  Talks  to  Farmers.  Each  Talk  is  a  short  sermon  from  a 
text  on  some  subject  concerning  a-riciilturo.  Mr.  Spurgeon  is  as 
much  at  home  in,  and  as  fami'.i;r  with,  the  secies  of  nature  as  he  is 
with  the  stores  and  business  of  mighty  London. 

WHAT  IS  THOUGHT  OF  IT. 


Canadian  B*pt's^  ears:  "Our 
readers  need  110  information  about  Mr. 
Spurgeon.  His  name  is  a  household 
word.  They  read  hia  ssrmons  con 
stantly.  They  have  only  to  be  told  that 
something  new  of  hi»  has  appeared,  and 
they  are  eager  to  procure  and  r«*d.  In 
nothing,  perhaps,  does  Mr.  Spurgcon's 
greatness  manifest  itself  niTe  con- 
epicuously  than  in  his  wonderful 
power  of  adapting  his  discourses  to  tho 
needs  of  those  to  •wlr  m  he  ppeaks. 
•John  Ploughman's  TalLs'  ard  'John 
Ploughman's  Pictures  '  are  admir&blo 
illustrations  of  this  power.  60  i«  tho 
bonk  before  ue.  It  will  bo  especially 
interesting  to  farm  ri,  but  ell  will  en 
joy  tho  practical  common  ecnce,  tbo 
abundance  of  illustrative  anecdote,  tho 
depth  of  spiritual  insight,  tlio  richness 
of  imagery,  that  prevail  in  tho  volume. 
The  subjects  of  the  different  chapters 
are:  'The  Sluggard's  Farm,'  -Tho 
Broken  Fence.'  '  Frost  and  Thaw,' 


'The  Corn  of  Wheat  Dying  to  Bring 
Forth  Fruit,'  'The  Ploughman,' 
'Ploughing  tho  Rock.'  'Tb«  Parablo 
of  the  Sower,'  '  The  Principal  Whfat,' 
'  Spring  in  tho  Heart,'  •  Farm  Labor 
ers'  'What  the  Farm  Laborers  Can 
Do  and  What  Tbry  Cannot  Do,'  '  Tho 
S'-.ecp  before  the  Shearers,'  '  In  tho 
Hay  Field,'  '  Spiritual  Gleaning,' 
•Meal  Uirno  in  the  Cornfield,'  '  Tn< 
leading  Wagon,'  'Threshing,'  'The 
Wheat  in  t'.ie  B:rn.'  Every  farmer 
should  read  this  book." 

Th*»  Christian  l»T<-ni«or,  St. 
Louis,  Mo.,  fays  :  "Most  interesting  and 
\mique.  Tho  arguments  in  favor  of 
Cl  ris'ianity  are  able  and  convincing, 
and  there  is  not  a  dry  .uninteresting  lina 
in  the  book;  the  distinguished  author 
presents  the  principles  of  relipious  lifo 
in  a  novel  but  instructive  manner,  and 
the  garniture  of  truth  and  earnestness 
in  hia  competent  hands  makes  the  book 
eminently  readable.  ' 


Codet's  Commentary  on  Romans. 


This  American  edition  is  edited  by  TALBOT  "W.  CHAMBERS,  D.D. 
large  octavo  pages.     Cloth,  $2.50. 


3-14 


Howard  Crosby,  D.D.,  Bays: 
•;  I  consider  Godot  a  man  of  soundest 
learning  and  purest  orthodoxy." 

Thomas  Armftage,  D.O..  rays: 
"Esrxjcially  must  I  commend  the  fair, 
painstaking.thorougb  and  dovout  work 
of  Dr.  Godet.  All  his  worts  aro  wel 
come  to  every  true  thinker." 


Arthur     Brooks,    D.I>..    n-ys : 

"  Any  ono  acquainted  with  Godot's 
other  works  will  congratulate  himsftli 
that  tbe  samo  author  s  clear  logic  an  I 
deep  learning,  as  brought  to  bjar  upon 
the  difficulties  of  the  Epistle  to  the  Ko- 
rnana,  are  to  be  made  accessible  through 
this  publication." 


The  above  w  rks  wi.'i  be  tent  by  m*ilt  fcstuge  faiJ,  on  receipt  cf 


PUBLICATIONS  OF  FUNK  &*  WAGNALLS,  NEW  YORK. 


From  the  Writings  of  Dr.  Guthrie,  arranged  under 

the  subjects  which  they  illustrate. 

By  an  American  Clergyman. 

Price,  in  Cloth,  $1.50. 

This  book  abounds  in  picturesque  similes.  Dr.  Gnthrie  has  rarely, 
If  ever,  been  equaled  either  in  the  number,  beauty  or  force  of  the 
illustrations  with  which  his  sermons  aud  writings  abound.  They 
have  been  collected  by  an  American  clergyman,  a  great  admirer  of 
the  author,  and  the  book  forms  a  perfect  storehouse  of  anecdotes, 
comparisons,  examples  and  illustrations.  It  contains  the  choicest  of 
his  illustrations,  arranged  under  the  subjects  which  they  illustrate. 

I  he  London  Times  says:  "  Dr.  Guthrio  is  the  most  elegant  orator  in 
Europe." 

Dr.  Candliihsaya:  "Dr.  Guthrie's  genius  has  long  since  placed 
him  at  the  head  of  all  the  gifted  and  popular  preachers  of  our  day." 

Dr.  James  W.  Alexander  says  :  "I  listened  to  him  for  fifty  minutes, 
but  they  passed  liko  nothing." 

The  Wei'ern  Christian  ftd- 
Tocate  says  :  "Dr.  Guthrie  was  pe 
culiarly  hfrppy  in  tlie  usa  of  brilliant 
and  forcible  illustrations  in  Lii  ser 
mons  and  writings.  Ail  American  k»s 
selected  many  of  these  g?n,s  of  thought 
and  arranged  ttiem  luiuer  th«  eubjtctn 
which  they  illustriite.  Keaderi  and 
preachers  will  enjoy  them,  and  Trill  find 
many  beautiful  sentiments  and  seed- 
thoughta  for  pressnt  and  futuro  use." 

The    Eo  t~n    Sunday     Globe 

Bays  :  "Dr.  Outline's  illustrations  arc 
rich  and  well  chosen  and  give  great 
force  to  hii  idens.  Love,  faith,  hope, 
charity  are  the  pulara  of  lit*  belief." 

Tlio  L.*i<h»'riin  Observer,  Phila 
delphia,  says:  "The  power  of  illu-tr*- 
tionsh'inld  bo  cultivated  by  preachcri 
of  the  Gospel,  ami  this  volume  ofspt  ci- 
rtiens,  if  used  aright,  will  "urnish  valu 
able  suggestions.  A  pood  illustration 
in  a  sermon  awakcna  the  imagination, 
helps  the  memory  and  gives  the  ba.rb 
to  truth  that  it  may  fi^ten  la  tho 
heart." 


The  Christian  Intelligf ne«r 

says  :  "  It  is  a  large  repository  full  of 
stirring  thoughts  set  in  tho»s  splendid 
forms  of  '  spiritualized  imagination,'  of 
which  Dr.  Guthrie  was  the  peerieM 
master." 

Tlx«  CHrist  Ian  Observer,  Lonis- 

viLTo,  saya:  "No  words  of  ours  could 
add  to  its  value." 


"A  rare 


Tli«  Rostin  Post  says: 
mine  of  litertry  wealth." 

Tito  Observer,  New  York,  says:  "It 
was  not  piven  to  every  generation  to 
haveaGuthrio." 

T'He  Chr's'i-tt   Advoca'o,  Xeir 

York,  pays:    "Th:s  book  will  be  read 
with  interest  by  th3  religion*  world.'' 

Tho  Zion's  Ilernl  !,  Boston,  iays: 
"  Pre  ichers  will  appreciate  this  vol 
ume." 

The  Chr!s»ia»t  Gnnrdlan,  To 
ronto,  says:  "An  exceedingly  interesting 

and  valuable  work." 


The  above  works  will  bt  tettt  ty  mail, 


en  receipt  cf  tftt  price. 


George  Eliot's  Essays. 

THE  ESSAYS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT,  Collected  and  Arranged, 
with  an  Introduction  on  her  "  Analysis  of  Motives.'1  By  NATHAN 
SHEPPARD,  author  of  "  Shut  up  in  Paris,''  "  Readings  from  George 
Eliot,"  etc.  Paper,  25  cents;  fine  cloth,  $1.00. 

(  This  is  the  first  appearance  of  these  Essay:  in  book  form  in  England 
or  America.} 


Che  Critic,  New  York: 

"Messrs.  Funk  &  Wagnalls  have  done 
<t  real  service  to  George  Eliot's  innumer 
able  admirer?  by  reprinting  in  their  pjpu- 
lar  STANDARD  LIBRARY  the  great  novel 
ist's  occasional  contributions  to  the  period 
ical  press." 
New  Ycrfc  Sun  t 

"In  the  case  of  George  Eliot  especially, 
whose  reviews  were  anonymous,  and  who 
could  never  have  supposed  that  such 
fugitive  ventures  would  ever  be  widely 
associated  with  the  nsme  of  a  diffident 
and  obscure  young  woman,  we  gain  access 
in  her  ear'.y  essays,  as  in  no  other  of  her 
published  writings,  o  the  sanctuary  cf  her 
deepest  convictions  and  to  the  intellectual 
workshop  in  which  literary  methods  and 
processes  were  tested,  discarded,  or  pp- 
proved,  and  literary  tools  fashioned  and 
manipulated  long  before  the  anther  had 
discerned  the  large  purposes  to  which  they 
were  to  be  applied.  *  *  *  Looking  back 
over  the  whole  ground  covered  by  there 
admirable  papers,  we  are  at  no  loss  to  un 
derstand  why  Ge-.rge  Eliot  should  have 
made  it  a  lule  to  read  no  criticisms  on  her 
own  slcries.  She  had  nothing  to  learn 
from  critics.  She  was  justified  in  assum 
ing  that  not  one  of  those  who  took  upon 
themselves  to  appraise  her  achievements 
hr.d  given  half  of  the  time,  or  a  tithe  of 
the  intellect,  to  the  determination  (  f  the 
right  aims  and  processes  of  the  English 
novel,  v/hich,  as  these  reviews  atte  t,  she 
had  herself  expended  on  that  object  before 
venturing  upon  that  form  of  composition 
which  Fielding  termed  the  modern  epic." 
Examiner,  New  York  : 

"These  essays  ought  to  be  read  by  any 
One  who  would  understand  this  part  cf 
George  Eliot's  career;  anJ,  indeed,  they 


furnish  the    key    to    all    her    subsequent 

literary  achievements." 

Evening  Transcript,  f!oston  . 

"  No  one  who  reads  these  essays  will  re 
gret  their  publication,  for  they  are  of 
striking  and  varied  ability,  and  add  much 
to  the  completeness  of  our  conception  of 
Marian  Evans'  character.  Critical  and 
artistic  power  seldom  go  hand-in-hand. 
The  most  brilliant  piece  cf  purely  literary 
work  is  the  one  on  Heine  and  German 
wit.  It  is  one  which  reaches  the  highest 
level  of  intellectual  criticism,  and  stands 
unsurpassed  by  anything  of  Arnold  or 
Lowell." 
Church  Union,  New  York: 

"  Nathan  S:ieppard,  ihe  collector  of  the 
ten  essays  in  this  form,  lias  written  a  high 
ly  laudatory  but  critical  introduction  to 
the  bock,  on  her  'Analysis  of  Motives,' 
and,  after  reading  it,  it  seems  to  us  that 
every  one  who  would  read  her  works 
profitably  and  truly  should  first  have  read 
it." 
Z  ion's  Herald,  Boston  : 

"  As    remarkable    illustrations    of    her 
ma  cu'.ine  metaphysical  ability  as   is  evi 
denced  in  her  strongest  fictions." 
Episcrpal  Methodist,  Balt'more  : 

"Everybody  of  culture  wants  to  read 
all  George  Eliot  wrote." 
HarCforcl  Evoning  Post: 

"  They  are  admirable  pieces  of  liter 
ary  workmanship,  but  they  are  much  n.ore 
than  that.  *  *  *  These  essays  arc  tri 
umphs  of  critical  analysis  combined  with 
ep;grsmmatic  pungency,  subtle  irony, 
and  a  wit  that  never  s<_ems strained." 
Christian  Advocate,  New  York  : 

"  They  show  the  versatility  of  the  freat 
novelist.  One  en  Evangelical  Teaching  ii 
especially  interesting." 


ALPHONSE  DAUDET  S  FAMOUS  BOOK. 


A    ROMANCE. 


lounded  on  the  Doings  of  the  Salvation  Army. 

_u  ^^XGKLISTE  "  is  far  out  of  the  beaten  track  of  fiction,  and  its  originality 
is  supplemented  by  intense  power  and  interest ;  in  fact,  it  would  be  cliiiicult  to  find  a 
romance  in  which  the  interest  is  more  absorbing.  Nor  is  this  interest  the  result, 
as  is  deplorably  the  case  in  so  much  French  fiction,  of  highly  spiced  sentimental 
ity  or  daring  vulgarity.  The  book  is  clean,  wholesome,  refined,  and  is,  moreover, 
founded  on  fact.  It  treats  mainly  of  the  acts  and  methods  of  that  world-famous 
organization,  the  Salvation  Army,  and  the  heroine,  Lline  Ebscn,  is  a  Dane,  living 
with  her  mother  in  the  Scandinavian  colony  in  Paris.  She  is  on  the  point,  of  being 
married,  and  a  happy  life  seems  in  store  for  her,  but  suddenly  a  disturbing  influence 
appears  in  the  shape  of  Madam  Autheman,  a  wealthy  banker's  wife,  who  is  given 
to  making  religious  converts.  This  woman  hires  Elinc  to  translate  some  prayer- 
books,  and  during  the  execution  of  the  work  the  girl  becomes  filled  with  her 
patron's  enthusiasm.  She  breaks  with  her  suitor  and  deserts  her  mother  to  serve 
as  a  preacher  in  the  Salvation  Army.  This  is  the  introduction  to  one  of  the  most 
thrilling  novels  of  the  day,  and  from  thence  onward  the  plot  absolutely  enthralls 
the  reader,  each  succeeding  link  riveting  the  chain  the  tighter.  The  inc  di-nts  are 
strong  in  the  highest  degree,  very  dramatic,  and  pervaded  by  a  lurid  light  of  mysti 
cism  which  augments  the  effect  a  thousand-fold.  The  gradual  development  in  tho 
young  heroine  of  the  faral  passion  for  proselytizing  people  is  depicted  as  Alphouse 
Daudet  alone  of  all  the  French  novelists  can  depict  an  idea,  and  the  struggles  of 
the  poor  mother  to  recover  her  deluded  daughter  from  the  grasp  of  the  rich  Authe- 
mans,  her  vain  appeals  to  the  feeling  of  pity  and  the  unsympathetic  law,  touch  the 
heart  of  the  reader  to  an  extent  the  pen" cannot  depict,  all  the  more  so  when  one 
learns  how  the  novel  came  to  be  written.  Daudet  had  often  observed  the  sad  faco 
of  the  lady  who  gave  lessons  in  German  to  his  eldest  son.  Surprising  her  one  day, 
with  tears  in  her  eyes,  he  induced  her  to  narrate  the  causes  of  her  woe.  The  story 
of  tho  woman  forms  the  basis  of  this  novel,  in  which  she  figures  as  Mme.  Ebsen. 


WHAT   CRITICS   THINK  OF  DAUDET. 

HENRY  JAMES,  JR.,  says,  in  the  Century  Magazine:  "We  have  no  one, 
cither  in  England  or  America,  to  oppose  to  Alphonse  Daudet.  The  appearance  of 
a  new  novel  by  this  admirable  genius  is  to  my  mind  tho  most  delightful  literary 
event  that  can  occur  just  now;  in  other  words,  Alphouse  Daudet  is  at  the  head 
of  his  profession." 

JULES  CLARETIE,  the  eminent  French  writer,  says :  "  To-dny  Alphonwi 
Daudet,  has  arrived  at  the  full  measure  of  his  renown.  In  fiction  he  is  proclaimed 
the  master.  ...  Is  the  most  delicate,  the  most  sympathetic,  the  most  charming  of 
all  our  contemporary  writers  of  romance.  .  .  .  The  poet  of  romance.'' 

JOAQUIX  MILLER  says,  in  a  letter,  April  3,  '84  :  "I  had  rather  be  Alphonse 
Daudet  than  any  oilier  living  man  now  in  literature,  except  two;  one  of  these  ia 
Victor  Hugo,  and  the  other  is— Joaquin  Miller." 

Paper  Cover,  5O  cents.     Cloth,  81 .00. 

E1T  This  is  the  ONLY  Complete  Edition  of  the  Story  published  in 
America.  About  one  half  of  the  Story  is  published  in  one  of  the  cheap 
Libraries  of  the  day— a  mere  fragment. 


PUBLICATIONS  OF  FUNK  <&  WAGNALLS,  NEW  YORK* 

"  Tfee  most  important  and  practical  work  of  the  age  on   tS\« 
Psalms.'*— SCHAFP. 

SIX  VOLUMES  NOW  READY. 

-SPURGEON'S  GREAT  LIFE  WORK- 

THE   TREASURY   OF    DAVID! 

To  be  published  in  seven  octavo  volumes  of  about  470  pages  each, 
uniformly  bound,  and  making  a  library  of  3,300  pages, 

in  handy  form  for  reading  and  reference. 

It  is  published  simultaneously  with,  aud  contains  the  exact  matte*  of, 
the  English  Edition,  which  has  sold  at  $4.00  per  volume 
in  this  country— $28.00  for  the  work  wken  com 
pleted.  Oar  edition  is  in  every  way  pref 
erable,    and    is    furnished    at 

ONE-HAJJP   THE  PBICB  OF 

THE  ENGLISH 

EDITION. 

Price,  Per  Vol.  $2.00. 

"Messrs.  Funk  &>  IVagnalls  have  entered  into  an  arrangement  witb 
t*e  to  reprint  THE  TREASUR  Y  OF  DA  VID  in  the  United  States.  ) 
have  every  confidence  in  them  that  they  -will  issue  it  correctly  and  worthily. 
It  has  been  the  great  literary  -work  of  my  life,  and  I  tnist  it  will  be  as 
kindly  received  in  America  as  in  England.  I  -wish  for  Messrs.  Funk  sue* 
eess  in  a  venture  which  must  involve  a  great  risk  and  much  sutlay. 

"£>es.  8,  iS8z.  C.  H.  SPURGE  ON." 

Volumes  I.,  II.,  HI.,  IV.,  V.  and  VI.  are  now  ready;  volume 
VII.,  which  completes  the  great  work,  is  now  under  the  hand  of  the 
author.  Subscribers  can  consult  their  convenience  by  ordering  ail 
the  volumes  issued,  or  one  volume  at  a  time,  at  stated  intervals,  until 
the  set  is  completed  by  the  delivery  of  Volume  VII. 

From  the  large  number  of  hearty  commendations  of  this  import* 
ant  work,  we  give  the  following  to  indicate  the  value  set  upon  the 
same  by 

EMINENT  THEOLOGIANS  AND  SCHOLARS. 

Philip  Sruaff,  r'.D.,  the  Eminent  i  tical  vork  of  tha  age  on  the  Psalter  is 
Commentator  and  the  President  of  the  )  'The  Treasury  of  David,' by  Charles  II 
American  Bible  Eevision  Committee,  i  Spurgeon.  It  is  full  of  the  force  and 
Bays:  "  The  most  important  and  prac-  I  genius  of  this  celebrated  preacher,  sad 

(OVER.) 

gGf  l%e  above  -work*  unll  be  sent  by  mail,  post  a. ft  faid,  en  rtteipt  vf  tht  prtit. 


PUBLICATIONS  Of  fUNR  dt  WAVNALJ^S,  NEW  YORK. 


rfeh  In  selections  from  tiie  entire  range 
of  literature." 

Wt'liam     M.     T«>-lor.     i>.O.» 

New  York  says:  ••  In  the  exposition  of 
the  heart  «XHIS  TRKAsaRy  OF  DAVID*  is 
sui  genfiis,  rich  in  experience  and  pre 
eminently  devotional.  The  exposition 
is  »iwai  s  iresh.  To  the  preacher  it  is 
eapscially  BuygeEtive." 

John  Hal',  D.D.,  New  jfoik, 
says:  •'  There  are  two  questions  that 
must  interest  every  expositor  of  tha 
Divine  Word.  What  does  a  particular 
passage  mean,  and  to  what  use  is  it  to 
be  applied  in  public  teaching?  In  the 
department  of  the  latter  Mr.  Spur- 
geon's  groat  work  on  the  Psalms  is 
Without  an  equal.  Eminently  practical 
in  his  own  teaching,  he  has  collected  in 
these  volumes  the  best  thoughts  of  the 
best  minds  on  the  Psalter,,  and  espe 
cially  of  that  great  body^oosely  grouped 
together  as  the  Puritan  divines.  I  am 
heartily  glad  that  by  arrangements, 
satisfactory  to  all  concerned,  tl  •  Messrs. 
Funk  £  Waanalls  are  to  bring  liiis  gr;  at 
work  within  tha  roach  ot  ministers 
everywhere,  as  the  English  edition  is 
necessarily  expensive.  I  wish  the 
highest  success  to  the  enterprise." 

•William  Ormist:m,  !>.•*>.,  Kew 

York,  says:  "  I  consider  •  THE  TREASURY 
OF  DAVID'  a  work  of  surpassing  ezcel- 
lenoe.of  inestimable  valuu  to  every  stu 
dent  of  the  >  salter.  It  will  prove  s 
standard  work  on  tha  Psalms  for  all 
time.  The  instructive  introductions, 
the  racy  ori  ;iual  expjsitions,  the 
numerous  q  :aiut  illustrations  gath 
ered  irom  wide  and  varied  fields,  and 
the  suggestive  Sfrmonic  hints,  render 
the  volumes  in  valuable  to  all  preacheis, 
and  indispensable  to  every  minister's 
library.  All  who  delight  in  reading  the 
Psalois— and  what  Christian  does  not? 
— will  prize  thia  w«rk.  It  is  a  rich 
cyclopaedia  of  the  literature  of  tuese 
ancient  odes." 

Tiieo.  i..  ruyler,  D.D..  Brook 
lyn,  says:  "  I  have  used  Mr.  Spurgeou's 
•  THE  TREASURY  OF  DAVID'  for  three 
years,  and  found  it  worthy  of  its  name. 
Whoso  goeth  in  there  will  find  'rich 
cpoils.'  At  both  my  visits  to  Mr.  S.  ho 
spoke  with  much  enthusiasm  of  this 
undertaking  as  one  of  his  favor.te 
mc-thods  of  enriching  himself  and 
others." 

Jesse  B.  Thomas,  D.D  ,  Brook 
lyn,  says:  "  I  have  th«  highest  concep 


tion  ot  the  sterling  worth  of  all  Mr. 
Bourgeon's  publications,  and  I  incline 
to  regard  his  TREASURY  OF  DAVID'  as 
having  received  more  of  his  loving 
labor  th;;n  any  other.  I  regard  its 
publication  at  a  lowor  price  as  a  great 
service  to  American  Bible  Students. " 

New  YorU  Observer  says:  "  A 
rich  compendium  of  suggestive  com 
ment  upon  the  richest  devotional 
p,etry  ever  given  to  mankind. ' 

Tlis  Congregatioisalist,  Bos 
ton,  says:  "  As  a  devout  and  spiritually 
suggrstive  work,  it  is  meeting  witU 
the  warmest  approval  and  receiying 
tha  hearty  commendation  of  the  most 
distinguished  divines." 

United  Presbyterian,  Pitts- 
burg,  Pa.,  says:  "It  is  unapproached 
as  a  commentary  on  the  Psalms.  It  is 
of  equal  value  to  mirdBters  and  lay 
men — a  quality  that  works  of  the  kind 
rarely  possess." 

North  American,  Philadelphia, 
Pa.:  says:  "'  Will  find  a  place  in  tha 
library  of  every  minister  who  knona 
how  to  appreciate  a  good  thing." 

New  Yorlt  Tudepsr ds-nt  rays: 
"  He  has  ransacked  evangelical  litt-ra- 
ture.and  comes  forth,  like  Jessica  from 
her  father's  house,  'gilded  with 
ducats'  and  rich  plunder  in  the  shapa 
of  good  and  hulpiul  quotations.' 

New  Yorfc.  Tribune  eays;  "For 
the  great  majority  of  readers  who  seek 
in  the  Psalms  those  practical  lessons 
in  which  they  are  eo  rich,  and  those 
wonderful  interpretations  of  heart-life 
and  expression  of  emotion  in  which 
they  anticipate  (he  New  Testament,  we 
know  of  no  book  like  this,  nor  as  good. 
It  is  literally  a  •  Treasury.' "' 

S.  S.  Times  sa-  s:  "  Mr.  Ppurgeon'a 
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